


West Italy

by lunar_mischief



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Avenger guest appearance!, Avenger guest stars!, Crack, Dresses, Forced Crossdressing, It'll make sense eventually, M/M, Or not, but not in a malicious way, it's an anything can happen story, nothing buck crack, poor poor america, seriously it's all crack, they really do mean well
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:02:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 34,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1668971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunar_mischief/pseuds/lunar_mischief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feliciano and Lovino realize they have a younger brother and must nurture him into a proper Italian. Warning: typical Italian antics and a very confused America.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Did you know America is the female version of Amerigo?
> 
> I own nothing.

“Fratello! Fratello! Wake up!” Lovino grumbled as he was shook roughly awake.

“What?” he spat, glaring harshly at his brother. “What could be so important that you had to wake me at,” Lovino squinted at the clock beside him. “Fuck Feli! It’s 4:30 in the morning!” _He better not have had a nightmare about being licked by a cat again._

“Ve, I’m sorry, mi dispiace, but it’s important! It’s about America! He was named after Amerigo Vespucci!”

Lovino stared blankly at Feliciano. “…He’s been named that for 500 years and you only just realized that? I mean, Christ, I knew you were slow, but that’s really bad.”

“Ve? Lovi, that’s mean!”

“Stop,” he yawned, “calling me that. Now go the fuck back to sleep!”

“But fratello! Don’t you realize what that means? America’s Italian!”

Lovino froze. His brother had actually said something that made sense. America... was  _Italian._  The energetic brat was one of them!And if they had America on their side…

“Feli, do you realize what this means?”

Feliciano nodded. “I’m a big brother just like you!”

“No! Well, I guess…” Lovino frowned. Where had he been going with this? _Oh, that’s right._

“What it means is that we’ll be a force to be reckoned with.”

“You mean-“

Lovino smirked. “That’s right. The great Roman Empire will rise again.”


	2. Chapter 1

“What do you see?” Lovino, hidden in the bushes, demanded of his younger brother.

“There’s a cute little kitty sleeping under the bush!”

“Damn it Feliciano, give me those!” Lovino snatched the bright pink binoculars his brother was holding. “…Did you have to get the fucking pink ones?”

“Ve? " Feliciano blinked at confusion, " Of course, the only other option was brown. Brown’s so dull!”

“God Feli, you’re so fucking gay.” Lovino rolled his eyes, lifting the glasses to meet them. “Now let’s see what he’s up to…”

“What’s he doing?”

Lovino peered through the binoculars into the other Nation's window. “It looks like he’s cooking something…there’s a big pot on the stove.”

“That’s good! We like to cook!”

“Yeah, but not like America. Have you seen the shit he eats?”

“Ve…What’s he doing now?”

“Still cooking.”

The older Italy checked. “Still cooking.”

 There were a moment of silence, and then-

 “…What about now?”

Lovino lowered the binoculars and turned to face Feliciano. “Mio dio, he’s still cooking. He’s going to continue to cook until he’s done. And when that happens, I’ll be sure to tell you. But until then, he’s. Still. Fucking. Cooking.”

“…Hey Lov-”

“If you finish that sentence, I swear I’m going to-”

“Yo, Italies! How’s it going?”

 Lovino shrieked at the sudden appearance of their stalkee with pitcher of lemonade and two glasses in hand. “Please don’t hurt me! I’m a relative to your country!”

“I think he’s done cooking, fratello,” Feliciano added helpfully.

America, oblivious to the byplay, grinned at the two. “I didn’t know the two of you bird watched.”

 “It’s not what it-wait, what?”

“You looked hot out here so I thought I’d bring you some lemonade,” America lifted the pitcher he was holding.

Lovino stared at the pitcher before frantically turning to his brother. “He’s on to us!”

The Italian brothers whipped out their white flags, turned on their heel, and began running for the hills.

“Huh? Where are you guys going? You just got here!” America yelled at their retreating forms. “I’m making pasta!”

Feliciano and Lovino stopped on a dime, faced each other, and quickly ran backwards.

“What did you say?” Feliciano asked with hopeful eyes.

“…I’m making pasta?”

Feliciano began to tear up. “He likes pasta…Fratello, he likes pasta! That’s definitely proof, right?”

Lovino nodded. “Definitely. What Italian doesn’t like pasta?”

“So…are you guys coming, or what?”

Feliciano nodded enthusiastically, walking towards the front door. “I would love to have some of your pasta!”

“There will be tomato sauce, right?” Lovino asked suspiciously.

“Duh! Who eats pasta without sauce?”

Lovino beamed, sharing a smile with his brother.

“I already poured it out of the jar, so I just need to nuke it in the microwave.”

Lovino stopped short, a horrified look crossing his face. “Did you just say that you eat _jarred_ tomato sauce?”

“Yeah,” America said. “It’s the only way I ever make it.”

“I think I’m having heart palpitations…” Lovino said faintly. Feliciano gently guided Lovino to a chair and handed him a brown paper bag that was lying on the table.

“It’s ok, Lovi, I’ll take care of it.” Feliciano turned back to America. “Ve, America, have you ever tried to make it fresh? You know, from scratch?”

“I considered it once,” the Superpower admitted, “but the only way I was ever taught to cook was by Arthur, so I thought it would be safer to just buy it already made.”

“He has a point,” Feliciano whispered to his brother.

“Fucking eyebrows messed up _our_ kid’s heritage. That’s it; I’m taking matters into my own hands.” Lovino stood up abruptly. “Ok, bastard, where do you keep the essentials?”

“Fratello! " Feliciano said, scandalized, "You can’t speak to him like that! He’s only a child!”

“Hey, I haven’t been a kid since the 1700s!” America pouted.

“You’re right," Romano said, ignoring America’s outcry. "I’m being a terrible mother. Father! Father dammit!” Lovino took a deep breath.  “America, where in your kitchen do you keep the essential ingredients?”

“Essential ingredients?”

“You know, tomatoes, olive oil, onions, parsley, basil….Every Italian kitchen has these!”

“But we’re in America...I’m America. I don’t have that kind of stuff lying around in the house. At least I don’t think I do…And even if I do, I have no idea where.”

Lovino stared, eye twitching. “I blame that bastard England.”

Feliciano, for once in his life, took charge. “You search for ingredients, I’ll head to the corner market and to get some seasonings, and you can call me with a list of things you need.”

 “Get some fresh mozzarella and a loaf of Italian bread too. We can make some bruschetta.”

“I’m on my way!” Feliciano

“Hold on a sec, why are we getting these things? The meal’s already made,” America protested.

“There’s no way in Hell I’m letting you eat that merda! I’m making it fresh right now.”

“But that’ll take hours! I want to eat right now!”

“I don’t want to hear it. That canned abomination is not meant for a palate such as yours.”

“Uh...ok…” America said before turning to leave.

“And just where do you think you’re going, mister?”

“TV? Video games? Bed?”

“No, I won’t allow it. You need to learn how to make this like a good Italian.”

“But I’m America…”

“WHEN YOU ARE IN MY HOUSE YOU WILL LISTEN TO ME!”

“But Romano…this is my house …”

“Don’t get smart with me. You are going to learn how to make this sauce, and you are going to like it,” Romano said sternly.

“Yes, _Mom_ ” America said, rolling his eyes.

Lovino’s heart skipped a beat. “Did you just call me ‘Mom’?” America blinked and then hesitantly nodded. “This is the proudest day of my life,” Lovino wiped a tear away and whipped out his phone.

“Feli guess what? Ame-Yeah yeah, that’s great. But you need to listen- I don’t care that the petunia’s are on sale, will you please just shut up and-Are you crying? For fuck’s sake Feliciano, how old are you? Ok, ok, get the plant if it will make you happy. Now can I please talk? I did call you for a reason, you know.” Dramatic pause. “America called me Mom!”

A cry of joy was heard from the other end of the line. “I know! He’s taking it so well. I mean it’s only been a day and he’s already accepted me!”

America stared confused as the elder brother spoke rapidly breaking in and out of Italian for a few minutes before switching topics.

“I need to go, but I think we need some parmesan reggiano. I couldn’t find any in the fridge. Can you pick some up?”

“Romano?”

“Hold on America, I’m on the phone. Yeah, you know the one we like.”

“But I have the cheese.”

Lovino covered the phone with one hand and turned to the taller Nation. “Are you sure? I didn’t see any.”

“Yeah, I grated it myself a bit before you showed up.”

Romano stared in awe. “Did you hear that Feli? He grated the cheese. All by himself! And it was Italian cheese! I know! England didn’t fuck up entirely! There’s still hope! They grow up so quickly. Yeah, alright. Ciao.”

America gazed at Lovino before glancing warily around the room. “Am I being Punk’d or something? You’re kind of starting to freak me out a little. I don’t think I’ve never seen you happy.”

“It’s just, I’ve been so neglectful. But you, you remember your roots. And it makes me so proud.” Lovino’s voice faltered for a moment and he quickly rubbed his eye.

“…Right. So…about that sauce…”

“Si, si, the sauce. Come here and watch what I do.”

* * *

“Lovino, America! I’m back! How’s the sauce coming?” Feliciano shouted as he struggled through the door with arms full of groceries.

“Feliciano, come quick! You have to see this!”

“Is something wro-Mio dio, is he stirring the sauce?”

“Yeah,” Lovino said smiling.

“All by himself?”

“All by himself. He picked it up pretty quickly, too.”

Feliciano watched in wonder as America stirred with purpose. “The pasta, the cheese, the sauce…he must be our little brother!”

“It is starting to look like it, isn’t it?”

“But then why didn’t we know about him? And why is he all the way across the ocean and not by us?”

“I have no idea. But from now on, it’s up to us to raise him. We’ll teach him what it’s like to be an Italian.”

“You mean to run away from anything that comes our way?”

“Ye-No! No, America is strong; he’s the force behind our empire.”

“Then maybe he can teach us _not_ to run away from battle?”

“Let’s be honest for a moment, Feli, no one can teach us that.”

“Ve…”

“Hey Italies," America said with a grin as he turned to the brothers, "This was actually pretty fun.  As long as I'm getting back to my roots, maybe I’ll ask Germany to come over soon. I have a lot of German in me, after all.”

Lovino froze before turning to glare at his brother. “You _didn’t_.”


	3. Chapter 2

"America, are you ready to go?" Lovino yelled impatiently.

"Yeah, I'm coming!" America's voice drifted down the stairs.

"Ve~ I'm so excited to take our boy to an Italian opera!" Feliciano chirped.

The sound of a door opening and closing rang through the house before America ran down the stairs, throwing on his bomber jacket. "Ok, dudes, let's go."

Lovino and Feliciano stared at America.

"America,” Lovino complained, “I thought we told you to dress nice."

"I am dressed nice. Look, I'm not wearing my ripped jeans."

"But you're still in jeans. And a T-shirt. And fucking sneakers! We can't take you to the opera dressed like that! You'll bring shame to the Vargas name!"

Willfully ignoring the last part of that sentence, America frowned. "But...this is what I always wear."

Feliciano whimpered. "Please tell me you're joking."

"Nope! I don't really do dress clothes. They're so uncomfortable."

"Well you can't go out like _that_!" Romano waved his hand at America's ensemble. "Where's your room? We'll find you something to wear. If there's something Italians know, it's fashion."

"Umm...ok...Follow me, I guess..." America led them up the stairs and opened the door to his room.

Lovino and Feliciano made a bee-line for America's closet.

"I really don't think that you'll find much, though. I never wear suits or anything. I used to have one England gave me, but that was like 300 years ago..."

"T-shirt, T-shirt, T-shirt...” Lovino paused as he found a solitary blue button up shirt, wrinkled and lightly stained. “What the fuck kind of closet is this?"

"Ve, what are we going to do, fratello?” Feliciano said, biting his lip. “We can't go to the opera unless America is dressed properly!"

America crossed his arms over his chest, cheeks puffed out in a pout. "I really don't get what's wrong with the clothes I'm wearing..."

Lovino slapped him. "Don't you ever say that again! Fucking England teaching our boy it's alright not to care about his appearance..." Lovino sighed. "We have no choice. We'll have to go the night after tomorrow instead."

 America frowned, not even bothering to rub his cheek--the Italies really were weak.  "I don't think I'm going to have a chance to go shopping before we go..."

"Ve, don't worry, we'll take care of it!"

"Man, what a long day," America sighed, walking though through the door and throwing his jacket on the couch.

"America? Is that you?” Romano asked, moving into America’s view.

“Romano? What are you – why are you – how did you get in my house?”

Romano stared blankly at America. “I’m South Italy. I know people.”

“People?”

“People.”

“What kind of people?”

“…Seriously?”

“Yeah,” America asked innocently.  “Are they like a locksmith or something?”

“Sure…let’s go with that. Anyway, Feli and I have a present for you.”

“A present?" the younger Nation cheered, all but bouncing. "Really? That’s so cool! What is it?”

Lovino smirked. “I can’t tell you that, it would ruin the surprise!”

“But…but present…” America pouted.

“It’s right upstairs. Come with me and I’ll show you,” Lovino said.

America smiled widely, practically pushing Lovino out of the way to race up the stairs. Once on top, he quickly threw his door open.

And stared.

“…Who are you?”

“Oh, Alfredo, you’re back, ve! This is Mr. Russo. He’s going to make you a nice suit!” Feliciano beamed.

“A suit? But why do I need – Did you just call me Alfredo?”

“Si! Alfredo is so much better than Alfred! It’s Italian.”

“Damn straight it is,” Lovino huffed, finally making it into the room.

“But my name’s Alfred…And I’m not Italian.”

Feliciano gently took America’s hand. “I know this is a difficult time for you, but it’s ok; we’re here for you. We’ll get you through this.”

“And what better way than with a nice Italian suit? Now come here Alfredo. I need to measure you,” Mr. Russo said.

America stared dumfounded at the tailor. “I really don’t see how a suit fixes anything.”

Lovino gasped. “Alfredo! How could you say such a thing?! A good Italian suit can save the world!  Now go get measured!” He pushed America to the tailor.

Mr. Russo whipped out a tape measure. “Ok, now hold out your arms.”

America did as he was told. “So…where am I supposed to wear this thing?”

“Well you’re going to break it in at the opera, but it can be used at many other places,” Lovino answered.

“Such as…?”the blond asked skeptically. 

“The theater,” Lovino said.

“The ballet,” Feliciano chimed in.

“Dinner.”

“Meetings.”

“Church.”

“A walk in the park.”

“Dates.”

“The mall.”

“Concerts.”

“Dancing.”

“Weddings.”

“Funerals.”

“Basketball games.”

“The office.”

“The doctor’s office.”

“Picnics.”

“The post office.”

“College classes.”

“Interviews.”

"Uh-huh," America said slowly, looking from one to the other.  “…Is there ever a time you don’t wear suits?”

“Plenty. Cooking, cleaning, tomato harvesting, beating up Spain…”

“But I’m not going to have to wear suits all the time, right?”

Feliciano frowned. “Of course you are! You’re West Italy!”

“West…Italy?”

“Si, you’re one of us! And you’re across the sea. West Italy,” Lovino nodded.

“I think you’re a little confused.” He gestured to his chest.  “I’m America. You know, the hero?”

Feliciano’s head bobbed up and down in agreement. “Exactly, you’re America. And you’re our America.”

America turned his attention back to Mr. Russo in desperation. “You don’t think I’m Italian…do you?”

“You’ve been misraised, that’s for sure,” the man muttered before smiling encouragingly, "but I’m sure in time we can straighten you out.”

“Now I know how Canada feels…” America sighed.

The Italies watched, tissues in their hands, as Mr. Russo worked on America. “Our little boy is getting his first custom Italian suit…This may be the proudest day in my life,” Feliciano sniffled.

“They grow up so fast!” Lovino cried, throwing his face into his brother’s chest.

“Ve, are you ready yet, Alfredo?” Feliciano asked.

“I just need a minute to tie my shoes!”

“I wish he’d hurry up,” Lovino grumbled. “This is like waiting to see your kid come out in their prom dress…”

“Except Alfredo’s not a girl!” He considered that for a moment. "Although I'm sure he would look very pretty in a dress if he wanted to wear one!"

“Ok, I’m coming!” America stepped out of his room, closing the door behind him and slowly descending the stairs. “So…how do I look?”

Feliciano and Lovino gaped at him.

“That bad, huh?” America laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess I’ll just go and take it off...”

“NO!” The Italies shouted in unison.

“You look magnifico, ve!”

“Handsome.”

“Dashing.”

“Mature.”

“Sophisticated.”

“But most of all…”

“You look Italian!” they cried together.

“Uh…thanks, I guess…” America said confusedly.

“Are we ready to go? I don’t want to be late,” Lovino hummed, eyes still shining proudly.

“I left my phone in my room. Let me just go grab it.” America spun on his heel and ran up the stairs.

Or tired to, anyway.

About halfway up he collided into something. Or rather, someone. Lovino and Feliciano froze.

“Hallo America,” the silver-haired giant smiled, eyes closed, at his friend.

“Oh, hey Russia! What are you doing here? And can you please start using the front door? You know it freaks me out when you come in from…actually, how did you get in today?” America asked, puzzled.

“Silly America, the front door is no fun. I came in through the window of your second floor bathroom!”

“Oh, ok. Well as long as it was a normal way this time.”

“Da! But where do you think you’re going? You know we had a…a…” Russia’s eyes widened as he opened them for the first time, taking in America in all of his suit porn glory.

“Yeah, sorry about that, dude. The Italies are dragging me to some opera. It was really last minute. I was actually just about to call you. …Is something wrong? You haven’t blinked in like 5 minutes.”

“D-da,” Russia stuttered. “You...you look good,” he whispered, blushing.

Lovino’s eyes narrowed and he stomped up the stairs, pushing past America and standing on the step below Russia.

“What do you think you’re doing, you commie bastard?”

Russia blinked. Was Romano willingly speaking to him? _A new friend!_

“Hallo little Italies! I am here to see America. We were supposed to go ice skating tonight before you rudely made plans without informing me.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Lovino raged. “You’re trying to make a move on my boy. I won’t allow it!”

Russia stared in confusion. “Your boy? You mean…” Russia turned to face America, tears welling in his eyes. “You already became one with them?”

“Wha-no! Dude, I would never-”

“That’s right you would never, mister.” Feliciano raced up the stairs and poked his finger into America’s chest several times. “My little Alfredo is not going to go sleeping around.”

The Superpower blinked down at the tiny man poking his chest. “I’m not?”

“That’s right, you’re not. And you,” Feliciano seethed, the courage of being an angry big brother bulldozing over his usual fear, “you’re trying to corrupt him! But you’re not good enough for him. _No one_ is good enough for Alfredo.”

“But…we are just going ice-” Russia blinked as he suddenly found himself on America’s front porch with the door slammer in his face. “Skating…What just happened?”

 


	4. Chapter 3

“Hey, fratello?” Feliciano called from the kitchen.  
“Hmm?” Lovino hummed, flipping through the channels in the living room.  
“You know how America is a girl’s name?”  
“Yeah, so what?” Lovino answered indifferently.  
“Well, wouldn’t that make America a girl?”  
Lovino paused mid-click and turned to his brother. “No, he can’t be a girl. He’s…America.”  
“Exactly! Think about it Lovi!” Feliciano said, sticking his head around the wall to meet his brother’s stare. “He’s self conscious about his weight and his looks and his fashion snese – Oh, wait, that one is an Italian thing…But still, it makes sense!”  
Lovino considered the notion for a moment before smiling. “You know, Feli, you might just get to see America in a dress yet.”  
“I’m telling you, Arthur, they’ve gone insane! They won’t leave me alone and they keep trying to make me Italian. I don’t want to be Italian, Iggy. I can’t be the hero if I’m Italian!” America cried, pausing when he heard the doorbell and glancing out the window. “Hold on a sec, dude. Someone’s at the-” America froze when he saw who was standing on his porch. He quickly ducked down, crouching below the window line. “Oh no…” he whispered. “It’s them. Artie, you gotta save me. I don’t know how much more of them I can take. Did you know they started calling me ‘Alfredo’?” A shout was heard from the other end of the line and the doorbell rang again. And again. And again. And-  
“For fuck’s sake, Feli, stop pushing the god damn button!” Lovino shouted from the other side of the door.  
“Help me…”America whimpered before hanging up. After taking a deep breath, he walked to the door, opening it to see a pair of grumpy Italians.  
“Hey, what are you guys doing here ag-” Lovino gruffly grabbed America’s arm, dragging him to his bedroom, Feliciano following with arms full of shopping bags. “Oh, ok, we can talk in my room, that’s cool too.” Sitting on the bed, he looked up at the twins, who were staring at him with their eyes narrowed and their arms crossed. “Umm…Is something wrong?”  
“You’ve been lying to us, America. We don’t like it when you lie to us,” Feliciano said.  
“What? No I haven’t!” America protested.  
“Don’t lie to us, Alfredo. Or should I say, Alfreda!” Lovino shouted.  
“I don’t know what you- Alfreda? Isn’t that a girl’s name?”  
“Aha! So you admit it!” Lovino cried.  
“Admit what? What’s going on?”  
Feliciano placed the bags on the floor and walked over to America, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It’s ok, dear. There’s no need to hide it. We’re here for you.”  
“Wh-But-Huh?”  
“We’ve bought you some nice new clothes. Appropriate clothes.”  
“Oh no…it’s not another suit, is it?” America groaned.  
“No, honey, you don’t need to wear those anymore,” Feliciano said, walking to America’s closet.  
“Oh thank god. They’re so uncom-”  
“Or these.” He pulled out all of America’s clothes, piled them messily in his arms, and walked toward the door.  
“Wait! Where are you going with those?” America cried after him.  
“Don’t worry, we’ll burn them for you. Just try on the clothes in the bags Feli brought in. We’ll be right outside when you’re done,” Lovino said, closing the door behind him as he stepped out.  
“Uh…ok.” A beat. “Wait, did you say burn?” After a minute of silence, America sighed in defeat. Well, I guess it couldn’t hurt to look… America gingerly put his hand in one of the bags and pulled out the contents. Or maybe it could…  
“Hey, um, Romano?”  
“Are you done already?” His voice was muffled by the door.  
“No, I think there’s some sort of mistake. These bags, they’re filled with girls clothes. Dresses. Lots of dresses,” he replied, opening the door.  
“No, that’s right,” Lovino nodded.  
“…But I’m America.”  
“That’s right, you’re America.”  
“…I’m confused.”  
“A proper lady should dress nicely. I won’t have my little girl dressing like a slob,” the smaller nation admonished.  
“G-Girl?!” America cried, stepping back a little in surprise. “Dude, I think you must’ve hit your head. I’m a guy.”  
“What did I say about lying to me? And another thing: no saying “dude”. It’s very unbecoming. And a stupid word. How will we ever find you a suitor if you continue to speak like that?”  
“But I’m not lying! I-” America was interrupted by Feliciano shouting from around the corner.  
“Die you stupid piece of flannel! Die!”  
A beat.  
“I’m a guy!” America exclaimed, ignoring the younger Italian’s outburst. “Do you want me to show you?”  
“No! Alfreda, how could you even suggest such a thing! I didn’t raise you to be a tramp!”  
“Actually, you didn’t raise me at all…” America protested meekly.  
“What did I say about getting smart with me?”  
“Not to…” America huffed. “But seriously, I’m not wearing these.”  
“I thought you might say that. Time for plan B. Hold on…” America watched Lovino reach into a bag-  
“Is that a Big Mac I smell?”  
Lovino smiled. “I bought it just for you.”  
“Really? Oh dude, that’s awesome!” America yelled, reaching for the bag.  
Lovino pulled his hand back. “Nah-ah-ah,” he tsked. “No dress, no burger.” And with that, he slammed the door.  
America blinked. “You know I could just break down the door, right?”  
“But this is your house. Do you really want to do that?”  
“No…”America sighed. He turned and glared at the monstrosity on his bed, hoping he could burn it with his eyes. When no laser beams appeared, he sighed again, weighing his options. Well, I guess I have no choice.  
“Romano?” he called again.  
“Hmm?”  
“You’re going to want to move.”  
“What are you-” America didn’t wait to hear the end of the sentence, instead charging at the door screaming. As he banged into it, he heard a girly shriek on the other side and saw a flash of curl. Stumbling over the debris, he dusted himself off and turned to Lovino, who was on the ground, glaring at him.  
“What? I told you to move…” He stepped forward and picked up the dropped burger. “Let me make this clear. I am America. I do not wear girls clothing and I never will.”  
“You mean…” Feliciano sniffled, appearing at the end of the halls. “You mean you don’t like the clothes we bought you?”  
“No, it’s not that, it’s just that-”  
“You hate them!” he bawled. “Fratello, America hates the clothes I picked out for her!”  
“Great, now look what you’ve done. Do you know how long it takes to calm him down?” Lovino said, glowering at America.  
“I didn’t mean to! It’s ok, Italy, don’t cry! The clothes are nice, they’re really nice!”  
“Really?” Feliciano whimpered.  
“Yeah, I’m sure that any girl would love them!” America beamed.  
“So…you’ll wear them?” The Italian looked up hopefully.  
“That’s not what I-” America froze, seeing the crestfallen face. Why was it that they were calling him a girl when Italy was the one using tears to get his way? “Fine…” he sighed.  
“Oh, grazie, grazie Alfreda! I’m sure you’ll look very pretty in them!” Feliciano cried.  
“Uh…yeah, sure…”  
“Alfreda, why don’t you go shower. And shave. I’ve seen those legs. Not very feminine. You can change into the dress afterwards,” Lovino said.  
America nodded, a defeated look on his face. “Just don’t look in here…”  
Lovino looked appalled. “We would never! A young lady needs her privacy.”  
“But I’m-”  
“Hush now, dear,” Feliciano said, pushing him to the bathroom door. “I’ve replaced your soaps with some nice floral ones, too. We’ll be in the kitchen if you need us!”  
America turned around to object, but instead was met with a face full of door. “…Rose shampoo? Seriously? Mattie’ll never let me live this down…”  
The sound of the doorbell filled the air and an impatient huff could be heard from outside. Inside, the bell went ignored.  
“Get that stuff away from me!” America shouted.  
“Ve? But Alfreda, it’ll make you pretty!”  
Ding dong.  
“I’m a dude, we don’t wear that!”  
Whap! “Ow, dude! What was that- Did you just hit me with a loaf of bread?”  
Ding dong.  
“No talking back to your mother. It’s rude,” Lovino said sternly, looking down at America.  
Ding dong.  
“This is so not cool…Hey! Stay away with that!”  
“ALFRED, LET ME IN YOU BLOODY GIT!”  
“Ooh, a visitor! I’ll get it, ve~” Feliciano left his older brother to deal with his younger one. I wonder who it is, he thought, frolicking trough the house. Not even bothering to look through the peephole, he threw the door open. “Buongiorno, England!”  
“England’s here?” America piped up from the other room. “Iggy! You’ve come to save me!” America sprang out of the chair the Italians had bullied him into and ran to the living room.  
“You call me over for an emergency, the least you can do is-” England froze, seeing America for the first time. Running out in a long blue and white Lolita dress complete with frills and ruffles (and lifting the hem so he wouldn’t trip over it) was his former colony. To complete the look, the Italies had put on a long straight sandy wig and even applied what appeared to be eye makeup and lip gloss  
“Artie, I knew you’d come for me!” he shouted, running over to his brother…and missing him by about four feet, slamming into a wall instead.  
“Ow…” he whimpered, bringing a hand up to his nose. “I can’t see anything without Texas…”  
Engalnd and Feliciano stood still, silent awe on their face. Their little boy looked so cute dressed like this, especially with his blue orbs shining with tears.  
“I don’t know what you’ve done to him,” England said, turning to Italy, “but I approve. I always thought he would look adorable in a dress as a kid. I never thought I’d get to see him in one!”  
“Bonjour Amerique! I-” Francis blinked, staring at the stronger nation on the floor. “Ohonhonhon, getting back into our French roots are we?” he teased, wiggling his eyebrows. Ah, how he loved the French Quarters in America’s New Orleans – seemed the boy was finally getting into the spirit of things.  
“Wha-no! It’s not like that!” America protested.  
“Don’t get any ideas, you pervert. We’re just turning Alfreda into a proper lady,” Lovino growled, walking into the room.  
“Lady? What the bloody hell are you on about?” England griped. His boy looked good in a gown, obviously, but it wasn't something a gentleman should gallivant around in in public!  
“Artie, you gotta help me. They think I’m a girl!”  
“Well to be fair, he does make a pretty cute one,” Francis winked, promptly being slapped by his lover.  
“How dare you make a move on him, you bloody frog!” England yelled before taking a deep breath. “Now what’s this about Alfred being a girl?”  
“America is a female name, so he must be a girl!” Feliciano chirped.  
“That may be, but he’s a boy. I think I would know; I did raise him, after all.”  
“That may be true (and what a fucking terrible job you did there), but did you ever, you know, see him?”  
England blinked. “Well, no, I suppose I didn’t.”  
“America,” a childish voice said, “why didn’t you tell me you were having a party?” Russia tilted his head from the front door. Sometimes coming in the normal way shocked his favorite nation more than a creepy stalker way.  
America yelped, jumping to his feet and hiding behind Feliciano. “Don’t look at me!” he cried.  
Russia blinked before striding forward and placing the Italian gently aside. Then he turned back. Eyes wide and mouth agape, the large nation couldn’t help but gawk America, who was attempting to hide his face with his hands. Grabbing his arms and gently pulling them away, Russia continued to stare silently. America looked up at him, frozen like a deer caught in headlights. His mind was racing trying to figure out what was going on inside of the Russian’s head. The silver haired nation began to blush and released one arm while turning around and silently dragging the younger one to the door.  
“Hey!” Lovino shouted, rushing over to meet the larger man. “Didn’t I already tell you to stay away from her?” Russia opened his mouth to protest but was cut off by an irate Feliciano.  
“We told you that Alfreda won’t be going anywhere with you,” he growled, tearing Russia’s hand off of America’s.  
“Now hold on a minute!” England shouted. “I’m the one who raised him…her…America. If anyone should decide who he or she gets to be with, it’s me!”  
“Calm down, Angleterre. America isn’t yours anymore,” France said, grabbing his lovers’ hand.  
“I don’t care if the little heshe isn’t my colony any more, America’s still my younger sibling!”  
“No way in hell am I letting Alfreda back under your wing, you bastard! You’ve already caused too much irreversible damage. There’s no telling what you would do if we let you have her back. Besides, America’s West Italy. She’s one of us.”  
“West Italy? He was an English colony, how could he possibly be Italian?” England raged at the Italies.  
“While little Italies and England argue, I go out with America, da?” Russia smiled.  
“Oh no, you’re staying right here!”  
“For once I agree with the tea bastard. Alfreda isn’t going anywhere.”  
“Wait a minute, guys…” America asked. “Don’t I get a say in this?”  
“No!” the nations shouted in unison.  
America stared, shocked before hanging his head. “…I want to go to Canada’s house. No one will ever find me there.”


	5. Chapter 4

At the sound of a doorbell, Canada glanced at the clock.  _I wonder who that could be at this time of night… Only 3 people remember I exist anyway, and one of them’s the mailman. Though I’m pretty sure he remembers the house more than me…_

Getting up from the sofa, Canada made his way to the door, whose bell was being abused. “I’m coming,” he whispered. Finally arriving, he opened the door.

“Al? What are you doing here?” He paused. “…And what are you wearing?”

“Mattie!” America cried, throwing himself onto his brother. “Mattie, you gotta help me! I thought Artie would’ve but then he turned on me…I have no one else to turn to!” He looked up from his brother’s chest, tears glistening in his eyes.

“Uh…sure Al. But you still haven’t told me what’s wrong.” _Or why you’re in drag_. Canada wrinkled his nose in confusion. “…Do you smell roses?”

“It’s the Italies! They’ve gone crazy! They think I’m one of them. And that I’m a girl. And then they made me wear this dress and put on make-up…Please Mattie, help me! They’ll never think to look here!”

Mattie sighed, used to the strange conundrums his brother often got caught up in. “Sure, Al. You know your way around the house.”

“Thank you thank you thank you!” America shouted, bolting past the doorway.

“You’re welcome,” the Canadian smiled. “I have the hockey game on; please don’t switch the channel.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” America sighed, flopping on the couch. “I think I’d rather just lie here a little and relax.”

 _Did I hear correctly? Al just wants to relax? He’s not all hyper and doesn’t want to accidentally hit me in the face with a baseball?_ Canada could feel tears of joy rising to the surface. _I don’t know what the Italies are doing, but I’m not complaining!_

“Hey, Mattie?”

“Yes, Al?” Canada asked, sitting down in the recliner to continue watching the game.

“Can I borrow some clothes? I’d really rather not keep wearing this frilly thing.”

Canada thought for a moment after the initial shock of his brother being considerate was over. While he understood why his brother wanted a change of clothes (honestly, who wouldn’t?), he couldn’t help but enjoy the fact that nobody would be able to confuse the two of them if America kept cross dressing. He knew he was supposed to be the nicer of the two, but the opportunity to humiliate his brother was just sitting on a silver platter. Besides, since when had Alfred ever not taken advantage of his brother?

“Well, I-” Canada was cut off at the sound of his phone ringing. “Hold on a minute, eh?”  Canada pulled his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the screen before bringing it up to his ear. “Bonjour, Papa.”

“Matthieu! I was just at America’s house and he was in a dress! It was simply adorable!” Canada smirked. It was always fun seeing his brother suffer a little. “Since he looked so good, England and I are coming to your house next! You’re going to be so cute!”

France continued speaking, but Canada tuned him out, slowly lowering the phone and hitting the “end call” button.

“Alfred?” he asked dazedly.

“Yeah, Matt?”

“…We need to leave. Now.”

“What? But I just got here! And you haven’t even made me pancakes!”

“Papa just called…He and Arthur are on their way.”

“What? No way! They weren’t supposed to find me here! Did they really have to choose now to remember you?”

Choosing to ignore the comment, Canada grabbed his car keys and headed to the door. “Let’s go, Al.”

“Wait, what about my clothes?”

“They’ll have to wait. Close the door behind you, eh?” America followed Canada out the door and into his car.

With the car doors closed and the key in the ignition, Canada paused and turned to his twin. “…Seriously, do you smell roses?”

* * *

 

“Alfred-san,” Japan said calmly, kneeling in front of the North American twins, “If what you have told me is true, I will offer any assistance I can, though I do not know how much help I will be.” He took a sip of his tea. “But I do not understand: why are you still in the dress?”

“They burned my clothes! I know they said they were going to, but I thought they were just joking. And then I saw the smoldering pile in the backyard as I ran away. I have nothing else to wear…”

Japan eyed America. He did look quite good as a girl. Cosplay antics kicking in, Japan stood up. “Hold on a minute, please,” he said before swiftly walking out of the room.

“Again, it smells like roses…”

Japan strode back into the room, a colorful fabric in his hand. “Here, put this on.”

America frowned. “I dunno, man, it looks kind of girly.”

“Says the man in the frilly dress,” Canada smirked.

“Besides, I don’t even know how to put it on,” he continued, pointedly ignoring his brother.

“I can help you with that. Come,” the Asian said softly, standing up once again and walking back out of the room. America looked at his brother and shrugged before following his friend because, who knew, maybe floral patterns were the height of masculine fashion in Japan.

Canada smiled, going to sip his own tea, freezing as the cup touched his lips.

“Huh. Roses are gone.”

“Hey, are you almost done? You’ve been working on it for awhile now,” Alfred complained.

“One minute please. You had terrible wig hair.” Japan pulled on a few more strands. “Alright, it’s finished.”

“Thanks so much, dude. You don’t know how much I appreciate this.” America stood up and walked back out into the main sitting room. “Hey Mattie! How do I look?”

Canada, who had been contemplating the varieties of maple (and trying to choose his favorite), looked up. He stared for a moment, trying to keep a straight face. And failing when his muffled snickers turned into a hearty laugh.

“What’s wrong? Does it look that bad?” America pouted.

Canada wiped his eyes. “No,” he giggled. “It looks great, _Alfreda_.”

“’Alfreda’? What are you talking about?” America asked, cocking his head. Canada continued his fit and pointed to a mirror in the corner.

Furrowing his brow, the heshe walked over and gaped.

“…Kiku?” he asked tentatively.

“Hai, Alfred-san?”

“I don’t think this is guy’s clothing.” He paused, gazing at his reflection again. “…And what did you do to my hair?”

“I apologize,” Japan said, bowing his head. “But it suits you nicely.”

“How does _this_ suit me?” America fumed, grabbing the green floral printed fabric of the furisode. “And the hair!” he yelled, looking in the mirror. “This is like a geisha styled thing! You even have the flower!”

“It just didn’t look right without the kanzashi.”

“But…why? Why would you do this to me? I thought I could trust you,” he sniffed, tears welling in his eyes.

 _Just as I suspected. It does look very good on him_. “I am sorry, Alfred-san. I don’t know what came over me,” Japan said, bowing once more.

“Well I guess it’s ok…I mean, no one else can see me like this any- Mattie! Did you just snap a picture?!”

“Of course not, Alfie,” Canada said innocently, slipping his phone into his pocket. He paused. “The roses are back…”

America shifted his eyes around nervously. “France must be near.”

Canada stared, horrified. “Oh no. Papa said he’d come.” Canada grabbed the collar of his brother’s kimono. “I don’t want to be a girl, Al!”

“Join the club…” America muttered under his breath.

“I have the perfect disguise, Canada-san,” Japan said, pulling out a second kimono.

“…I’m good.”

Japan went to protest when the door slid open. “Ah, good afternoon, Heracles-san.”

“Morning Kiku, Canada,” he said, nodding at America.

“Actually, I’m over here…” Canada said.

Greece glanced at the quiet nation. “Hm? But then who’s this?”

“America,” the superpower sighed.

“How did you confuse us like this?” Canada grumbled. “I look the same as usual!”

“Let’s be honest, Matt. You’re not exactly the ‘masculine’ type,” America mused.

“Again, says the man in the dress,” Canada mocked.

“Says the man who got confused for the man in the dress. Besides, this is a kimono,” America corrected, raising his nose in the air.

“You’ve got flowers in your hair. Still counts.”

“Sorellina!” Feliciano called from outside. “Fratello’s here!”

America stiffened before looking around hurriedly. Spotting what he was looking for, he dashed inside a closet, slamming the door behind him.

The door flew open and the Italies walked in, a hulking Russia standing behind them.

“We know America’s here, so you’d better hand her over, bastards,” Lovino huffed, crossing his arms.

“He’s in there,” Canada said, pointing at the closet.

 “Oh, Canada, you’re here! That’s great! My two siblings are here together!” Feliciano ran towards the invisible nation, throwing his arms around him.

“What are you talking about, Italy? I’m Alfred’s brother, not yours.”

“Exactly! You’re Alfred’s brother, so you’re mine as well! You’re East Italy!” he cried.

“But ," Canada looked around for help but came up empty handed, "I’m to the west of you…”

“You don’t understand? Here, I’ll show you.” Feliciano pulled out a sheet of paper and a pencil. “Now, see? You draw a circle,” he did so in demonstration, “and that’s the Earth! It’s not flat like we thought it was! You can go in _both_ directions. So even if you’re to the west of us, now you can be east of us too!”

“Feli, I don’t think that’s how it works…” Lovino said, rubbing his temple.

“Of course it is, fratello! Don’t you know anything?”

“Excuse me, but weren’t you looking for Alfred?” Canada asked, silently praying for the focus to go off of him.

“Ve? Oh, that’s right! Where did you say he was?”

“In the closet.”

 _So not cool, Matt_ , America thought from behind the door.

Lovino rushed to the door, throwing it open. “Alfreda, what are you doing? Were you hiding from us?” he asked sternly. “And what happened to the pretty dress Feli got for you?”

“Oh, uh, hey guys. I was just...making something for Japan? Yeah, that’s it,” he said, nodding his head. “He gave me this to wear, so I thought I’d thank him.”

“Really?” Romano asked, raising an eyebrow. “Let’s see it then.”

America froze. “Well, you see, it’s not really done yet…”

“That’s ok, show us what you have. You do have something, right?” Romano demanded.

“Yeah, of course I do. I just didn’t want to show it until it’s done, you know?” He glanced up at Romano, who was still waiting expectantly. “Let me just get it out haha,” he laughed nervously, reaching and grabbing something blindly before removing it from the closet.

Romano stared blankly. “You’re making him a cat?”

“Uh…yeah, apparently I am…” America blinked.

“Che cazzo you expect us to believe that-”

“Alfreda!” Feliciano yelled. “You can make cats?! That’s amazing; magnifico! I’m so glad you’re my younger brother! Oops, I mean sister! Sorry, sorellina.”

“That looks a little like one of mine…” Greece muttered.

“Alfred-san, I did not know that you made robots,” Japan said with interest.

“Uh, yeah, it’s the biggest rising industry in America…”America lied, shifting his eyes around.

“America, you’ll make me a cat too, da?” Russia asked, placing a finger on his lip.

“Sure…Hey, how’d you find me, anyway?”

“Silly America. I followed your scent!” Russia smiled, tilting his head.

“That’s so creepy,” America laughed heartily.

“Alfreda, time to go, ve~” Feliciano said, tugging gently on America’s arm.

“Actually, I think I should take him,” Russia argued, placing a hand on the Italian’s wrist. “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have found him.”

“How many times do I have to tell you to stay away from her?” Lovino yelled.

“For the last time, I’m not a chick!” America shouted, stamping a foot on the ground.

“Don’t be silly, Alfreda, of course you’re not. You’re a lady.” Lovino stated.

“ _No_ , I’m not!” America screamed, patience wearing thin. “Do you see these?” he asked, pointing to his chest. “Well, do you?” A moment of silence. “Exactly! There’s nothing there. Because I’m a guy.”

“Ve, it’s ok, Alfreda, some women take longer to mature. They’ll grow in,” Feliciano said comfortingly. “And until then, we got you a padded bra. We know how delicate women are at this age. We need to do something about the color of those cheeks, though…” He leaned forward and pinched them. “There we go! Trollops rouge, lady’s pinch, after all!”

“I’m not a god damn woman!”

“Hello, dears!” Hungary sang, gliding into the room.

“Elizabeta? What the fuck are you doing here?”

Japan hid a smile. America in women’s clothing? Hungary owed him big time for this.

“I heard _somebody_ ’s been messing with my fantasies, and that America might be a girl! I can’t allow that. My precious yaoi would be ruined!”

Everyone stared blankly.

“Right,” Hungary said, clasping her hands, “let’s get down to business, shall we?” She pranced over to America, scrutinizing him. Unfortunately, it was harder to tell than she had thought. The Nation did make a very beautiful woman... “Well, I guess there’s only one way to know for sure. Apologies in advance,” she smiled before firmly grasping Florida. America stiffened, choking on air and trying to hide a blush. Feliciano went to protest, but was grabbed by Lovino, who was giving him an if-you-value-your-life-you’ll-stay-out-of-it look. Giving America a final fond squeeze, Hungary smiled. “Thank goodness, you really had me worried there! Bye now!” she waved, sashaying out of the house.

“Well…that was awkward,” America said slowly.

“Da, _I’m_ the only one who’s allowed to touch you, especially when you’re dressed like this,” Russia pouted.

“It’s ok, dude, I’ll make it up to you later.”

“So…I don’t have a sorellino?” Feliciano sniffled.

“If Liz left happy, I’d say no,” Lovino sighed.

“Oh well, we still have two fratellini!”

“Two? What are you talking about, Feli? We only have one younger brother.”

“Really? I would have sworn there were four Italies…”

“You’re such an idiot, Feli.”

All alone in the corner of the room, Canada sighed happily. “For once, I’m glad to have been forgotten.”

“Traitor,” America glared at his twin.

Bouncing back as quickly as ever, Feli grabbed America's arm. “Come on, Alfredo, let’s go.”

America rolled his eyes but began following the smaller nation. “At least I’m finally back to being a man.”

“You’re still in the furisode,” Canada pointed out.

“Hate you. So much.”

“See you later, Alfie,” Canada smirked. He went to take a step before pausing and sniffing the air. He turned to his brother in horror as realization dawned on him. “Maple! Is that _you?!_ ”


	6. Chapter 5

“Welcome home, fratellino!” Feliciano yelled, dragging America out of the car and showing him the front entrance of the  Italians’ house.

America stared blankly for a moment before turning back to face the Italian. “This isn’t my house.”

“Ve? Of course it is! It’s the house of the Italies!” Feliciano exclaimed.

“Guys, seriously, how many times do I have to tell you? I’m America!” the blue eyed nation shouted, exasperated.

“That’s right,” Lovino nodded. “You’re Italy America.”

“…That’s not what I meant.”

“I know this is all so new for you, dear,” Feliciano said, cupping his hands around America’s, “but we’ll help you get through, help you embrace your Italian.”

“And forget that English fucker. He was clearly a bad influence,” Lovino huffed, lifting the suitcases out of the car.

“I know I’m going to regret asking this,” America sighed, “but what makes you so certain I’m Italian?”

“Well that’s obvious,” Lovino said, a bit taken aback by the American’s ignorance. _Not exactly the brightest of nations, is he? Then again, he_ is  _related to Feliciano._ _But then, so am I and I'm fucking brilliant. Must be that English bastard's fault._ “For starters, there’s your name.”

“Your love of pasta,” Feliciano chimed in.

“Your ability to learn how to cook Italian food.”

“Your looks.”

“Your enviable running away skills.”

“Your willingness to demand sanctuary.”

“Your hair…thing.”

“Your-”

“Hold up,” America interrupted.  “Half of those don’t even make sense. And what’s this about ‘my hair thing’? What the heck does that even mean?”

“Your little piece of hair that sticks up,” Lovino blinked. Wasn’t it obvious?

“Nantucket? What about him?”

“It was obviously supposed to be a curl.”

“A curl? You mean like the ones you have?”  The taller nation shook his head. “No, Nantucket’s always been like this.”

Lovino sighed sadly. “Britain got to him too soon...stunted his growth. Poor bastard never stood a chance.”

“No, I mean it was like this before he even-”

“Fratello, are you sure it’s a curl?”

“Of course, Feli. What else would it be?”

“I don’t know…” The middle brother bit his lip. “It’s just…weird.”

“Nantucket is not weird!” America cried, only to be ignored.

“Well, I guess there’s only one way to find out,” Lovino said with consternation.

“Ooh, ooh, can I do it?” Feliciano bounced, raising his hand eagerly.

Lovino rolled his eyes. “Knock yourself out.”

Feliciano smiled before lurching at his “younger brother”.

 “Hey, what are you-” America turned beat red and stifled a moan.

“I think that suffices as a yes.”

“I don’t know, fratello, it might just be a reflex to jumping him. He _was_ partially raised by big brother Francis. Let me try again,” Feliciano chirped.

“Wait, don’t! I’m not into incest!” Lovino cried.

Feliciano ignored his older brother and proceeded to give the lock another sharp pull.

“C-Cut that out!” America panted, weakly pushing the hyper Italian.

“Yup, it is one!” Feliciano smiled, pulling away from the larger nation. “Hey, doesn’t somebody else we know have a curl?” he asked, tilting his head.

“No, I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure it’s just the three of us,” Lovino answered.

“That’s too bad. They could’ve been East Italy!”

 _Mattie, I hate you. So much._ He couldn’t bring himself to actually utter the words to remind the duo of his twin. Even Mattie didn’t deserve this.

 “Ve, Alfredo, what are you doing just standing there? Don’t you want to change?”

America’s head snapped to the younger twin. “You mean it?”

Feliciano nodded. “Germany always leaves some clothes in my dresser. They might be a little big on you, but I’m sure you’ll like them better than that pretty kimono!” He thought for a minute, bringing a finger to his lip. “…Can I try it on later?” he asked, eyes wide.

“Uh…” America gawked, caught off guard. “Sure…Knock yourself out. Where’d you say you kept Germany’s clothes?” he asked, shaking his head.

“The dresser in my room. It’s upstairs, th-”  
                                                                                                                                                                                America grinned, eager to finally get out of girl’s clothes, and gingerly lifted the hem of his robe before bolting inside the house and up the stairs, not even bothering to wait for Feliciano to finish giving directions. Opening every door until he found the right one, he snatched a grey t-shirt from the top drawer of the dresser in Feliciano’s room.

“Seriously? No jeans? How does this man live?” he asked, pulling out a pair of black slacks. He was about to shut the drawer when a small package caught his eye. “No way!” he shouted, grabbing the parcel. “An unopened pair of boxers?! It’s like Christmas, but better!”

“Alfredo, are you alright up there?” Lovino hollered from down the stairs.

“Alright? I’m more than alright!” he called down happily. “There are fresh boxers up here! I can take off these panties now! They were really starting to dig in.”

“Way too much information.”

America disregarded the statement, instead choosing to tear the package open with his teeth and hold the fabric close, inhaling the fresh scent.

* * *

 

While America was changing, the Italies were enjoying a nice glass of wine.

“Fratello, what are we going to do? We mistook Alfredo for a girl. He can’t be very happy with us…” 

“Don’t worry, Feli,” Lovino said, sipping his wine. “We’ll make it up to him. Parents make mistakes all the time, right? I’ll just swing by that shitty food place he likes so much and-”

Lovino was cut off by the sound of his front door being smashed. “What the fuck?!” he shrieked, turning around to see who was at the door.

There was a blur of Italy as he tackled the intruder to the floor. “Don’t worry, Alfredo, I’ll protect you!” he shouted from on top of the trespasser.

“What would I possibly be afraid of?” America asked, coming down the stairs clad in men’s clothing once again. He paused. “There aren’t any ghosts, are there?”

“SPAIN!” Lovino shouted angrily as he recognized the downed trespasser. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing smashing my door in with your axe? We talked about this!”

“Hi Lovi!” Spain grinned dopily. “I’d hug you, but there’s a Feliciano on me.”

“Huh? Oh! Big brother Antonio! What are you doing here with Jorge?” Feliciano asked, springing off Spain.

“Well, you see, Luddy called and said that you two had been spending lots of time with America recently, and then we started thinking that maybe he was trying to get close to the two of you. But you weren’t doing that, were you America?” Spain asked with a smile, turning to face the named country and raising his axe menacingly.

“What? No!” America assured, waving his hands in front of him. “I’m really glad you’re here, though. I need your help-”

“Stay away from Alfredo with that!” Lovino snapped, cutting off America’s plea for help. “He’s not making a move on us. He’s our little West Italy. We’re teaching him how to be Italian.”

Spain stood with a blank stare.

“Let me try explaining that a different way,” Lovino sighed. He opened his mouth to speak again.

“Spain, I told you to wait until I parked the car before moving in,” Germany reprimanded as he made his way inside, dabbing at his forehead with a bloody napkin.

“What was wrong with where I parked it?” Spain asked, turning to face his partner in crime.

“You parked on the lawn,” Germany replied simply.

“So? Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Spain shrugged.

“Ludwig!” Feliciano yelled, glomping his lover. “I didn’t know you were here too!”

“What the fuck are the two of you doing here, anyway?” Lovino demanded.

“Well you see Lovi, I was in my tomato garden trying to choose which were ready to pick when this butterfly flew past. It was red, and it made me think of mi tomate. So I followed it, calling after it. ‘Mi amor, mi corozan!’ I shouted. But it wouldn’t stop, so then I thought it really was you, and at first I was upset, but then I realized that I love you even as a butterfly! So _then_ , I-”

“Antonio!” Lovino shouted, still angry with his lover. “Get to the point.”

“I think maybe I should take this one…” Ludwig mumbled. Seeing that Lovino, for once, wasn’t objecting (or screaming obscenities at him), he decided to continue. “It all started when I heard that America had been spending much of his time with the Italies…”

_*~Flashback~*_

_Germany rang the doorbell and waited patiently on Spain’s doorstep. After a few minutes with no reply, he went to ring again when he heard the sound of laughter coming from around the house. Curious, the German walked to the back gate, careful not to stray off of the narrow walkway. Seeing Spain frolic after a butterfly, the blond man sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose._ Maybe coming here was a mistake…

_Germany strode over to the older nation, who seemed to have finally noticed him. “Hola Ludwig!” he shouted, waving fervently. “What are you doing here?”_

_“I’m sorry to bother you,” the younger man apologized, “but I was wondering if you know why America has been spending so much time around Feliciano and his brother?”_

_“I don’t think so…” Spain tilted his head. “But now that you mention it, they have been spending a lot of time together. Lovi’s even gone so far as to call him ‘Alfredo’.” He paused. “He didn’t add an o to my name…”_

_Germany, long used to the foreign nation’s strangeness (stupidity), ignored the absurdity of that remark. “Feliciano called him the same thing …” He frowned, furrowing his brow. “You don’t think they’re…with him, right?”_

_“Don’t be silly, Germany,” Spain smiled. “Of course America hasn’t been touching Lovino.”_

_“Ja, I guess you’re right-”_

_“Because if he had, Jorge and I would have to pay him a visit, now wouldn’t we?” he smiled manically, his axe appearing out of thin air._

_“Right. Well then.” Germany stared awkwardly at the brunet before turning away abruptly and heading back to his car. He took a deep breath and buckled himself in. He was about to turn the key when the passenger door opened and Spain clamored in, axe and all._

_Germany stared, baffled. “…What are you doing?”_

_“What do you mean? I’m coming with you!” Spain exclaimed. “You said we were going to the Italies’ house, right?”_

_“Well, no, I didn’t-”_

_“I need to_ talk _to America. And I think you do, too.”_

_Germany contemplated the thought. “I suppose a short discussion wouldn’t hurt,” he frowned._

_“Si, si! Now then, vamonos!”_

_*~End Flashback~*_

“And that brings us to now,” Germany finished.

“Hold on. That explains why you’re here, but it if you were the one driving, how was it that _that bastard_ drove across my lawn?” Lovino yelled, pointing to Spain.

“Well, sweetie, Luddy here was driving awfully slowly-” Spain explained.

“I was driving the speed limit! Apparently, your country has none.” Germany interjected.

“And then, he made us stop for gas!”

“We were running on fumes!”

“And _then_ , while we were at a yield sign-”

“It was a stoplight.”

“-he wasn’t even moving!”

“It was red!”

“So I convinced him to let me take the wheel!”

“You threw me into the rear windshield!”

“Mio dio, I can’t take this. Come on Alfredo, let’s go get you some new clothes.” Lovino grabbed America’s wrist and started pulling him to the broken mess of a door while Span and Germany stood in disbelief. The Italians only bought clothes for people they loved.

“You’re buying me new clothes?” America blinked.

“Well, we did burn all of yours. And I won’t have you wearing _that_ fucker’s clothes,” Lovino growled, glaring at Germany.

“Awesome! I can’t wait to get a pair of jeans!”

Lovino stopped in his tracks and spun on his heel. “Who said anything about jeans?”

“Huh? Well, you said you were replacing my clothes, so I thought-”

“Well you thought wrong. From now on, it’s all Italian style for you. No jeans, no tees. We’ll get you some suits, some nice casual wear, and a few pairs of slacks.” He paused. “And shoes. Yes, many shoes,” he nodded.

“But I don’t wanna wear suits!”

“I can always get you a new dress,” Lovino answered blankly.

“…So about those shoes?”

Lovino smiled. “That’s more like it. Now come on,” he said, turning back around and dragging his “brother” out the door.

Spain and Germany continued to stare after the pair.

“Ve? Ludwig, you’re bleeding!” Feliciano exclaimed worriedly. “Did you fall and hit your head while telling the story? That happens to me sometimes…”

“Hm? Oh, no, that was the window.” Feliciano stared with his signature blank face on. Germany sighed. “So what is going on between you and America?” he asked.

“Oh, Luddy, big brother Toni, that’s right, I have wonderful news! America’s West Italy! So now Lovi and I are raising him and teaching him to act like an Italian, though I think Lovi wants to become a strong nation again, which is funny because he’s such a pansy. Oh, did you know Alfredo likes pasta? Fratello taught him how to make it after we saw he used the jarred stuff. And then we thought he was a girl, but don’t worry, he’s not. But he does look very pretty in a dress!  But there’s the slight possibility I might have accidentally set his clothes on fire, so now Lovi’s- Oh, pasta’s done!” Feliciano ran into the kitchen to turn off the buzzing timer and drain the spaghetti, leaving a dumfounded pair of nations in his wake.

“…Did he just say that they have a kid?” Spain asked, confused.

“Ja, I think so…But, which one had it?”

“I’m a daddy?” Spain asked with wide eyes.

“Hold on a moment,” Germany interrupted. “What makes you so sure he’s yours? America’s blond with blue eyes. If anything, he’s mine.”

“Si, but you would’ve been very small when America came to be.”

Germany frowned. “That is true.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “Well, why don’t we just ask them?”

“I can’t ask Lovi that! You can’t just ask your lover if you missed him being pregnant!” Spain cried, horrified, wincing at the thought of what Lovino would do to him if he dared ask that question.

“Wait…but wouldn’t Romano have been a kid when England found America?”

“Si, but so would Feli.” Spain thought for a moment. “You don’t think they had him together, do you?” he asked quietly.

Germany took a second to imagine the possibility. Vividly. “Nein!” He yelled, blushing furiously. “They would never do that; they’re brothers!”

“So then how do we know whose it is?”

Germany stood still for a moment, thoughts wracking his brain. “Well,” he started, “I suppose we could each spend some time with him, and see which one he relates to better. Surely he’d subconsciously like his real father better than his uncle.”

Spain smirked. “You’re on.”


	7. Chapter 6

A few hours later, Lovino opened the door and stepped inside, an exhausted America carrying many shopping bags right behind him.

“Ve? Fratello, is that you?” Feliciano called from up the stairs.

“Si,” Lovino shouted back. “Come down and see the clothes I picked out for Alfredo.” Pounding footsteps were heard above, and then they continued rushing down the staircase. He turned around to face America. “See that reaction? That’s how you should act when you hear the mention of clothing.”

America looked skeptical but didn't get the chance to comment before Feliciano appeared.

“Ve~ I’m ready!”

“So, the first place I took Alfredo was-” Lovino froze, having turned around and seen his brother for the first time since he arrived home. “Feli…what the fuck?”

“Don’t I look pretty, fratello?” Feliciano chirped, spinning around and showing himself off in America’s discarded furisode.

“No, Feliciano,” Lovino hissed between his teeth. “You look like a fucking fag!”

“But I am a fucking fag," the Italian responded with confusion. "I’m gay and I sleep with Lud-”

“Don’t finish that sentence!” Lovino roared. I don’t need to know what you and that fucker do in your free time.” He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. “Just go change. I’m not showing you Alfredo’s new clothes until you’re dressed like a man again.”

Feliciano pouted. “Fine,” he said. “But just so you know, you’re a fucking fag too, fratello,” he winked, giggling as he ran off.

“Feli, I am going to kill you!” Lovino snarled, chasing after his younger brother.

“…I thought he looked pretty…” America mumbled to himself.

* * *

 

After much shouting, the breaking of windows, and a cry of “Not the pasta!!”, the Italian twins had made it back downstairs and were digging through America’s bags. The nation himself sat, bored, on the couch.

“Ooh, this one’s very nice! The color goes well with his complexion,” Feliciano smiled.

“Si, si! And look at the stitching on this one!”

“Wow! That’s really high quality!”

“Of course it is! I’m Italian; I don’t buy that cheap shit.”

America sighed. He liked a good shirt as well as anyone else, but these two were obsessive.

“Hey, ‘Mano?” he called lazily. “Could you not call my stuff ‘cheap shit’? It’s kind of offensive.”

“I just call them as I see them.”

Feliciano, who had been rifling through the bag, suddenly shrieked. Lovino’s head snapped in his direction, big brother instincts kicking in. He readied his hand to grab Feliciano’s wrist and hightail it out of there.

“Feliciano, what’s wrong?” he asked urgently.

“It’s…”

“What?”

“It’s a… a…” Feliciano whimpered, unable to finish his sentence.

“Spit it out already!” Lovino pleaded, hand beginning to shake.

“It’s a T-shirt!” he sobbed, throwing his face into his brother’s chest. “Oh, fratello, why would you buy such a thing?  It's infected the good leather with its mediocrity! Are you sick? Are you not feeling well? Italians don’t wear anything so drab as a T-shirt!”

 “I’m fine, damn it, get off!” Lovino said gruffly, pushing at his twin. “Bastard kept begging for one, and this one had his flag on it. I only bought it for him to sleep in!”

“You mean he doesn’t sleep naked?” Feliciano sniffled.

America blinked. “You mean you do- Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know!” America shouted covering his ears.

"But everyone should sleep naked! Why, Grandpa Rome--"

 “I told you not to tell me! Damn it, now I’m scarred!” he cried, running out of the room and into the hallway where he slammed into Germany. “Oh, uh, hey dude. Sorry about that…” he muttered, continuing on his way.

 “It’s alright,” Germany replied, about to make his way into the sitting room to see what ridiculous thing had made his lover shout out this time when he realized his possible son had just walked right into him. “Wait!” he called, turning around to face the shorter nation.

“Yeah?” America turned to face the German.

“Would you, erm,” Germany cleared his throat. “Would you like to get a drink?” he asked, blushing heavily.

“You mean booze? Like _beer_?” America asked, wide-eyed.

“Ja…There’s a decent bar not too far from here…” Germany trailed off. What if he didn’t like beer? He hadn’t even considered the possibility that the American wouldn’t be into it, but he was Italian, and the Italies routinely grimaced at the mere _mention_ of beer. How could he be so stupid? “We don’t have to of course,” he sputtered. “I mean, we could always-”

“No, dude, I’m totally in. The Italies don’t drink anything but wine! I’m dying over here!” America whined.

“So…you’ll come?”

“Lead the way.”

* * *

 

“This place isn’t too bad,” America said as he looked around, “but it doesn’t have the right atmosphere, you know? Bars are supposed to be kind of loud, and dim. Seedy, almost.”

“Ja, I know what you mean. But it’s Italian. Bars aren’t exactly their specialty.”

America nodded in understanding before changing the subject. “So, dude, why’d you want to go out with me? Italy won’t come?”

“Ja, like you said, they only drink wine,” he grimaced. Then Germany shifted his eyes awkwardly to the side. “I also thought that maybe we could bond a little,” he said, voice barely over a whisper.

America blinked. “Yeah, y’know, we never talk or see each other outside of meetings. Who knows, maybe you’re actually a cool dude,” he laughed, slapping the stoic nation on the back, eliciting a grunt.

The pair sat in an awkward silence for a few minutes.

“So…” America said, trying to think of a conversation starter. “You like baseball?”

Germany stared back blankly.

“…Or not.”

**18 drinks later…**

“There’s no way that happened!” America laughed drunkenly.

“No, it’s true! Gilbert really did that!” Germany chortled, leaning against the table to support himself.

“Dude, that’s hysterical! What did she do?”

“Hit him with her frying pan, what else?”

“Frying pan?” America slapped his knee. “That’s classic!”

“And then,” Germany had to pause to catch his breath, “and then he fainted! Just like that!” Germany clasped a hand on America’s shoulder, trying not to lose his balance as he laughed. “And that’s why whenever he hears the words ‘church bell’, he jumps!”

“I’m trying that out! I’m trying that out, man. It just…I need to do it.”

“Bring a parrot.”

“A parrot? Why a parrot?”

Germany scrunched his face in thought. “I don’t know. Everything’s just funnier with a parrot.”

“Dude, you are one funny guy. You’re just…you’re awesome. Yo bartender, let’s get another drink for my man over here!”

Germany leaned over and grabbed the other blond by the shoulder. “You’re the best son a man could ask for,” he said, tearing up a little.

“Well, if I had a dad I guess I... Wait. You mean…I have a dad?” America asked, eyes lighting up. “Daddy!” he yelled, throwing his arms around the usually stiff nation, who hugged him back.

**The next morning…**

“Good morning, Luddy!” Feliciano chirped. “Did you have fun with Alfredo last night?”

“I think so…” Germany said, cradling his head over his untouched bowl of cereal. “But I really don’t remember any of it.”

“You too, huh?” America said, walking into the kitchen, nursing his own hangover. “I don’t know what we did, but it must’ve been intense. We should totally go out again. But not now. Right now, I need some coffee. And a bucketful of drugs. Man my head hurts…”

* * *

 

The next morning, America walked into the kitchen to eat some breakfast.

“Hola, America!” Spain smiled, working with something on the counter.

“Hey, Spain. Didn’t expect to see you in here. Whatcha doin’?”

“I’m making churros. Lovi loves them, but he’ll never admit it,” he winked. “Do you want one? The last batch is still hot.”

“What are they?”

Spain nearly dropped the pastry he was currently working on. “Dios mio! You’ve never had a churro? Sit. You’re definitely having one. A churro is a delicious Spanish pastry. It’s fried dough-”

“Fried!” America sighed dreamily. It had been so long since he’d been to his beloved Mickey D’s.

“-coated in cinnamon sugar.”

“Sugar?!” America squealed. “It’s kind of like a zeppole. I love Zeppoles!”

Lovino, who had been about to enter the kitchen, quickly turned heel and grabbed the car keys. _Zeppoles! How could I forget those? Every Italian likes them!_

Spain smiled widely at the smaller man’s enthusiasm. “Well it’s not exactly the same…” He grabbed a pastry and a mug and handed it to America. “And you dip them in this!”

America blinked. “Coffee?”

“No, it’s hot chocolate!”

America stared in delight. “You mean you take a sugary treat and dip it in a sugary drink? Dude, you’re the best! Seriously, how did I never think of this before?!” America took the stick and dunked it in the mug a few times before taking a large bite. “Oh my god… I think I’m in heaven.”

Spain laughed at the blond nation’s glee. “I knew you’d like them! Take as many as you want!”

“But I thought you said they were for Romano?”

“It’s ok, I can make another batch. So eat up, okay?” he asked, ruffling America’s hair.

“Whatever you say!” America grinned before hastily taking another churro.

* * *

 

The next day, Germany walked into the living room and found America lying lazily across the couch, flipping through the channels on the telly. Caught by sudden inspiration, the German walked over and stood next to him.

“Hey, America?” he asked stiffly.

“Hmm?” America hummed in acknowledgement.

“Would you like to train together?” What better way to bond with his son?

“Nah, that takes way to much effort,” America yawned, continuing to change the channel.

Germany frowned. He had been certain the strong nation would be into working out, but maybe Alfred took more after Feliciano than he had thought. He let out a quiet sigh and walked into the kitchen to grab a beer.

“Hi, Luddy!” Feliciano smiled, stirring something in a pot. Seeing the forlorn expression on his lover’s face, he dropped the spoon and rushed to Germany’s side. “What’s the matter? You look so sad!”

“It’s nothing important,” the blond assured.

“Please tell me, Ludwig! You don’t look like you when you’re gloomy,” the Italian pleaded.

Germany ran a hand through his hair. “I was hoping to spend time with America. He’s an Italy, so he’s family. But he doesn’t want to train with me.”

“Oh no!” Lovino shot out of his chair at the table and marched over to the normally intimidating nation. “You already corrupted Feliciano, there’s no way in hell I’m letting you near Alfredo!” he yelled in Germany’s face.

“But Lovi!” Feliciano cried, clutching his older brother’s hands in his own, “I love Germany, and I want him to be happy. Please help him, fratello!”

Lovino’s face tinged red as he stared at his brother’s tearing eyes. He never could resist the puppy eyes. “Alright, fine,” he caved, pulling back. “But you owe me.”

Feliciano smiled happily. “I’ll buy you some new shoes.”

Lovino nodded in approval. “Seems fair.”

“And Ludwig and I will take Alfredo out tonight so you and Toni can have loud sex! But remember, use a condom!”

“Oh God, Feli. We are not going there!” Lovino groaned, turning beet red.

“But safe sex is important! If you need anything, I have some stuff in my nightstand. Ludwig and I-”

“FELICIANO!” Germany yelled.

“Si?” the younger twin answered obliviously.

Germany stared blankly. “Right, so…” he said awkwardly, breaking out of his stupor. “Romano, you… Romano?” he asked, waving a hand in front of that statue.

“Fratello? What’s wrong?” Feliciano asked, suddenly concerned.

Lovino had a horrified look on his face, frozen save for a twitching left eye.

“Romano? Are you alright?” Germany asked, placing a hand on the half-nation’s shoulder.

Lovino jumped. “Hands off, potato fucker!” he screeched.

Feliciano sighed in relief. “You had me worried for a minute, Lovi! But now that you’re cursing at Ludwig again I feel better.”

 Germany removed his hand from Romano’s shoulder. “Anyway, as I was saying, you know America better than me. Why wouldn’t he want to train? He’s a superpower; surely he does something to stay in shape, what with all that food he eats.”

“The word training implies hard work. Alfredo’s lazy when he’s not working,” Lovino answered in a bored tone.

“Well then, what would you suggest?”

“Hey, Alfredo!” Lovino called.

“Yeah?” America shouted back.

“Germany wants to play that stick and ball game with you.”

“Dude, no way! I didn’t know you played baseball! I thought you didn’t like it!” America said excitedly as he magically appeared in front of the taller nation.

“Erm, I don’t really…” The German shifted his eyes away. “I really only play football.”

“Really? I love football!” America cheered. “I haven’t seen any gear lying around, though,” he added as an afterthought.

“That’s because we’re not slobs. We’ll work on that next week,” Lovino said.

“But until then,” Feliciano continued, “there are some jerseys and some balls in the hall closet.”

“I’m on it!” America dashed out of the kitchen and around the corner, throwing open the door. He frowned and grabbed a ball from the floor before walking back into the kitchen.

“I couldn’t find a football, only this,” he said simply, holding out the round black and white checkered ball.

“But that is a football,” Germany said, frowning.

“No it’s not.”

“What are you talking about? Of course it is!” Lovino snapped. His team had made it to the finals in the Euro Cup this year (they didn’t talk about the match itself, though. Bring it up and receive a head butt to the gut). He knew what he was talking about. “What the hell kind of football have you been playing?”

“No, this is a soccer ball. A football’s brown and kind of shaped like a pointy oval,” America explained.

“Oh, that’s right. You have your own fucked up version of football. Name doesn’t even make sense. You barely even kick the thing.”

“It’s not ‘fucked up’, it’s awesome! It’s so much better than soccer,” America argued.

“Alfredo, why _is_ it called football, anyway?” Feliciano asked, tilting his head.

“No one knows,” the sandy-haired nation replied mysteriously.

“So, America,” Germany prompted, also used to America’s strangeness, “are you up for a match of football?”

“You mean soccer?”

“No, football.”

“I thought you didn’t play.”

“Not your football, our football.”

“Whose football?”

“The rest of the world’s football.”

“…You mean soccer?”

Germany pinched the bridge of his nose, patience wearing thin. “Yes, _soccer_.”

“Why didn’t you just say so?”

Lovino face palmed.

“Is that an affirmative?” Germany questioned.

“I dunno, man,” America hesitated, scratching his head. “I’m not really good at the game.”

“Lucky for you, Ludwig is!” Feliciano chirped. “Though not as good as Italy, of course,” he muttered. “But I’m sure he can teach you!”

Germany nodded in confirmation.

“Alright, sure, I’ll try it out.”

_15 minutes later…_

“America!” Germany shouted gruffly. “How many times do I have to tell you: there’s no tackling in football!”

“But it makes the game so much more interesting!”

“…Just get off of me.”

* * *

 

“Hola, America!” Spain smiled cheerily, talking into the cabinet he had just opened. “Can you hand me the large pot?”

“Uh, yeah, sure…Hold on a sec.” America shifted his laptop, pulled out the requested pot, and handed it up to the older nation. “Here ya go.”

“Thanks!” Spain took the object. “Say, what are you doing in there anyway?”

“Hiding,” the younger nation whispered.

“From?” Spain prompted.

“ _Them_.”

Spain stared, clearly confused.

“The Italies!” America whisper-shouted, as if it should be obvious. “I’ve had it with their ‘West Italy’ talk, their ‘you can’t wear jeans’, ‘what did we tell you about not using coasters’, and their ‘Alfredo, will you put on this dress? I think you’d look really pretty in it!’” America ranted, eye twitching.

“Ah,” Spain nodded sagely. “They can be hard to handle at first. But I’m sure you’ll get used to them.”

“I don’t want to get used to them! I want to get away!” America clambered hastily out of the cupboard, grabbing the Spaniard’s shirt. “You’ll help me, right?” he asked, somewhat crazed.

“Uh…Si?” Spain asked. “But where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere! Just not here.”

 Spain thought for a minute before smiling once more. “I know just the place.”

* * *

 

“So…why are we doing this again?” America asked, frowning.

“El Encierro is a longtime tradition of my people. We missed the big festival for it, so this small one is the best we can do. Plus, it’s exciting!” Spain said excitedly.

“I dunno, man. I mean, it seems kind of dangerous. Haven’t people died from this?”

Spain laughed. “Don’t worry about it!” he said, clapping a hand on the American’s back. “You’ll be- RUN!” he yelled at the sound of a rocket.

“What? Oh shit!” America yelped at the sight of the bulls behind him as they charged out of their pen. He quickly caught up with Spain. “Why do you run from them?”

“What do you mean? They’re bulls, I’m human. Well, kind of.”

“No. Well yes, but what I mean is why run when you can ride them?” America asked.

“I don’t understand. Why would you ride the bull?” Spain countered, perplexed.

“Dude, you’ve never ridden a bull before? You gotta try it, it’s awesome! Here, watch me!” America ran back towards the charging bulls.

“America, are you crazy? You’re going to kill yourself?” Spain shouted. “…I’m going to go to prison for child neglect,” he whimpered. “No, Lovi will kill me before I ever get to court,” he paled.

“Dude, trust me! Now watch!” America pulled a long rope out of his pocket and swiftly threw it at one of the bulls. The lasso wrapped perfectly around its neck. The bull, unaware of his new predicament, continued rushing towards America, who gave the cable a sharp pull to tighten the noose, sidestepped out of the way, grabbed its left horn, and threw his weigh up and onto the creature.

“Yee-haw!” he yelled, grabbing the rope collar with one hand while waving with the other. “Now this is exciting!”

Spain ran to the side of the parade to stare in wonder. “I had no idea you could do that!” he called, running to the side of the stampede.

America smirked. “It’s pretty awesome, I know. Hey, why don’t you pull out your pocket lasso and join me?”

Spain blinked, impressed with the nation's even speech while a giant animal bucked beneath him. “I don’t have one of those. Come to think of it, I don’t think anyone does but you.”

“Really?” America blinked, shocked. “I thought they were pretty common. Hold on, I think I have another in here…” America fished around his pocket with his free hand, face filled with frustration. “I know I always bring a spare…”

“It’s ok, America, I don’t think I’d-”

“Here it is!” America yelled triumphantly. “Catch!” he shouted, tossing it to Spain.

“Thanks, but I don’t know that I can do this,” he said, staring at the rope worriedly.

“Come on, man! It’s so much more fun with a partner!”

Spain thought for a minute. He did bring America here to bond with, after all. “Alright, I’m in.”

“Great! Now, it’s real simple…”

* * *

 

“…And that’s how I hit my head!” Spain laughed. “Oh, and broke my arm!”

“You don’t need to sound so damn cheery about it,” Lovino huffed.

“But it was a fun way to hit my head!” Spain pouted.

“…How hard did you say you hit it?”

“Lovi, that’s mean!”

“Oh, hey ‘Mano, I’ve been looking for you!” America said, entering the living room clad in cowboy gear. “Come with me! I want to show you something!”

Lovino looked at America for a beat, wide-eyed and full of fear, before promptly bolting the other way.

“Hey, Romano, where are you going?” America called after him. “What’s up with him?” he asked Spain. “I just wanted to show him a new pair of shoes I bought…”

“I think it might have something to do with your clothes.”

“Oh, this old thing? I was just really in the wrangling mood since the other day, but since there aren’t any cattle to be found ‘round these parts, I decided to just wear the outfit. Sorry again about your arm…”

“That’s alright! I had fun! We should do it again sometime. But maybe start with something less dangerous.”

America smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, not my best idea there. Anyway, I guess I’ll just go find Italy and show him my shoes instead. Later!” he waved, running out of the room.

“…Why did I just agree to go through that again?” Spain sighed.

* * *

 

“Trying to win him over is taking way too long. I say we have a football match. Winner gets America,” Spain said.

“A football match? How would that prove anything?” Germany asked, confused.

“What’s the matter, scared you’ll lose?” Spain taunted.

“No, I just don’t see the point,” Germany argued, crossing his arms.

“Then I win by default.”

“How does that- Fine,” Germany said, shaking his head. “First to three?” With any luck, he would win and Spain would leave him alone so Germany could simply ask Italy in the morning whose son America was. The competition was getting old fast.

Spain smirked. “You read my mind.”

“Very good. Let me go grab the football and I’ll-”

“Did someone say football?” America shouted excitedly.

“Ja, Antonio and I were going to-” Germany was cut off by a battle cry as America lunged towards both nations, tackling them to the ground.

“Hahaha! The Hero wins!”

“Ludwig?” Spain groaned.

“Hm?” The German grunted in reply.

“I don’t think I can play today…I think America just broke my back.”

“That’s good, because I think that he just punctured my lung.”

“Truce?”

“Truce.”


	8. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After seeing how cute America would look in a dress, England decides to visit his other North American colony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> So, in case it wasn't clear, France and England ran away to go see Canada after the mistaken gender crisis. Here's what happened up north with them.

“We’re lost.”

“No, we’re not. I’m sure it’s this way.”

“Do you not see the vast nothingness around us? It means we’re lost, Francis.”

“Arthur, I’ve been to Mathieu’s house many times. I think I would know where it is.”

Arthur came to an abrupt stop. “Then why the bloody hell have we been walking around the middle of nowhere for the past few hours?”

“Canada is a very large nation,” Francis said indignantly.

“…You have absolutely no idea where we are, do you?” Arthur asked, sighing.

“Of course I know where we are.” He paused.  “We’re in a plain.”

Arthur stared at his blond companion, exasperated.

“Alright, so maybe I’m having a _bit_ of trouble remembering where mon petit érable lives, but I’m sure-”

“'A bit?’ Francis, we haven’t seen any sign of civilization in a day!”

“And I suppose you know the way?” Francis asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I can barely see the lad, how am I supposed to know where his house is? We could be walking through a city right now for all I know.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. The cities around here are French! I would know if I was in one.” Francis sighed. “We’d best keep walking. We’re not going to get anywhere if we just stand here.” After a harrumph from England, France took his hand and led him north. A Canadian civilian, long used to being ignored by foreigners, stepped out of their way before entering the main door of the skyscraper the pair had been blocking.

“Where is Matthew’s house, anyway?” Arthur asked with vague interest, not noticing the car that screeched to a stop.

 “It’s in a wooded area not too far from Montréal.” Francis paused. “You know, we’re alone in the middle of nowhere.” He grabbed England and pulled him close. “We can do whatever we want out here,” he whispered into the smaller nation’s ear.

“Wh-What?!” Arthur exclaimed, cheeks turning red. “We need to find Matthew, d-don’t we? You wanted to see him in a dress. That’s the whole reason we’re up here in the first place.”

“Oui, but why don’t we ‘enjoy the sights’ while we visit, hmm? We can always find Mathieu tomorrow. So, what do you say?” France asked, placing a hand firmly on England’s ass and squeezing.

“Hands off you bloody perv!” England snapped, pushing the taller blond away.

“You wound me with your words, mon cher.”

“Good! I’m not having sex with you in public! Someone might see us.”

“Arthur, we’re in the middle of nowhere, who’s going to see us?”

“I don’t know; someone could come along.”

Francis sighed. “You’re no fun.” They stood in silence for a moment. “So what about when we’re not in public?”

“W-Well,” the Brit stammered, “I guess-”

“Like when we get to Mathieu’s house!”

“There’s no way I’m having sex with you in our son’s house, you stupid frog!” England yelled.

Canada, who was sipping a cup of coffee at a table outside of small café, looked up at the sound of familiar voices. “Merde! How’d they find me?” he muttered. Looking around frantically, he grabbed a news paper and opened it, hiding behind it in case his parents somehow managed to spot him. He peaked over the top to watch them.

“Hold on a tic, wasn’t Montreal originally one of your cities? And you said the area around here is very French, right?” England asked, gears spinning in his head.

“Oui, assuming we are in Québec, that is.”

“Can’t you sense it or something?”

“Sense it?” France replied, perplexed.

“You’re the personification of France! You should be able to sniff out anything French easy,” England explained.

“I could give it a shot…” Francis closed his eyes, breathing in the air and concentrating on his surroundings.

“Sense anything?”

“I only just closed my eyes.”

Arthur hummed. “You’re bad at this.”

“Like you could do any better. Now be quiet and let me focus.”

“Careful not to hurt yourself.”

France harrumphed before closing his eyes once again.

A beat.

 “What about now?” England smirked.

Francis glared at his companion. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“No, I don’t…” Francis sighed in defeat. “I’m going to try again,” he said. “Don’t interrupt me this time,” he glared at his partner before taking a deep breath and closing his eyes once again.

England watched his lover’s brow furrow as he tried to sense the land around him. 

Canada frowned. One of his poor citizens was standing at a loss, muttering quiet “excuse me’s” as he tried to get to his blocked-off bike, but the two countries (unable to hear the man) had chosen that exact spot to stop and…just what were they doing? The inhabitant seemed to have realized they were foreigners, and gave up, choosing to sit on the curb and wait patiently for them to finish their…business. Canada’d go over and help himself if he wasn’t so concerned with being found. Instead, he chose to keep watch from a safe distance.

Finally, Francis’ eyes snapped open. “East.”

England, who had long since gotten lost in his own thoughts, jolted at the sudden outburst. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“East,” the Frenchman smiled triumphantly. “We need to go east.”

“Which way is east?”

“That way,” Francis smiled, pointing to his right.

“You mean the way we just came from?” Arthur asked, raising an (overly large) eyebrow.

“Did I say east? I meant west. Definitely west, which is that way,” Francis said, pointing to his left.

“You didn’t sense a thing, did you?”

“Not a one.”

“Okay.”

The duo stood in silence for a minute. “Really, you couldn’t have just admitted you couldn’t find anything?”

“It was better than just wandering aimlessly.”

“Oh really? And how did you figure going back in the same direction would be more useful?”

“You’re so mean to me, mon cher.”

Britain sighed. “Ok, let’s try west, then.”

The pair had taken no more than three steps when Francis stumbled and landed on the ground.

“This is why you should lay off the wine,” England commented absently, looking at his nails.

“I haven’t had a single glass since before we arrived at America’s.”

“Oh, so I suppose something tripped you?”

“Oui, that is correct,” France said, picking himself up.

“And what, pray tell, managed to do that in the middle of this open field?”

“Perhaps there was a-Ah!” France cried in shock.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Francis raised a shaking finger, pointing next to the spot he had fallen on. “There’s a person there!”

“Flying Mint Bunny is real, and so are my other magical friends, so stop making fun of me!” England yelled, stomping his foot.

“Non, I swear there’s a person there! At least I think there is…” France frowned. The man, middle aged and looking mighty uncomfortable with the sudden attention, was mostly transparent. “I can barely see him.”

England leaned his face into the spot the other nation had pointed to, scrunching his face and scrutinizing the empty space in front of him.  “Maybe he’s Canadian...”

“Maybe he knows where Montréal is!” France kneeled down in front of the vague figure. “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur, but would you happen to know the way to Montréal?”

The man on the ground blinked. “You can see me? Oh mon dieu…” the man mumbled. “A European noticed me. This has never happened before. What do I do? What does it mean?!” He was used to the occasional American, but a European? It was unheard of!

“Excuse me, sir,” a passerby said to her fellow Canadian, “Did you just say that these Europeans… _noticed_ you?”

“What?!” a lady from the now gathering crowd yelped. “What does it mean? Officer, officer!” she yelled, waving at the uniformed man across the street fervently.

“What seems to be the problem, miss?” the officer asked, crossing over to meet the group.

“These foreigners, they’ve seen us!” the lady cried hysterically.

“It’s alright, calm down. They’re probably just Americans.”

“But they sound like they’re French and British.” The woman moved closer, eyes full of worry. “Officer, what does it mean?”

“Are you sure there’s someone there? I think he would have spoken by now,” England mused.

“There’s definitely someone. I think,” Francis frowned. “Maybe he’s shy.”

“Or maybe he doesn’t speak English. Try your poor excuse of a language.”

“French is a very romantic language! Unlike English, a hideous one.” France cut off England’s reply. “But I suppose I could try.  Québécois is a little different, but I think he’ll understand me well enough.” He turned back to the local. “Parlez-vous français?” A weak nod. “Savez-vous comment se rendre à Montréal?”

“Did he just say Montréal?” the lady whispered in fear. “They’re looking for us!”

“The British are coming!” a hysteric citizen cried.

“The French are too!” A beat. “…Actually, that’s not too worrisome.”

“But what have we done to upset them?!”

“Maybe they want to recolonize us!”

“At least it’s not the Russians…” a man in the now forming crowd muttered.

“The Russians are here too? Oh God, we’re going to die!”

Canada, who had decided things were getting just a _tad_ out of hand, had finally ventured over to the panicking crowd. “It’s ok, I know them, they’re not going to-”

“Everyone just needs to calm down,” the officer yelled as he finished whispering frantically into a walkie-talkie. “The proper authorities have been notified and are on their way; they’ll let you know what, if any, action should be taken. For now, just keep some distance-”

“Really, it’s ok,” Canada protested. “These are my-”

“Sir, I’m not going to ask again,” the officer said with surprising force (for a Canadian). “This is a matter of national security. I’ll use force if necessary.”

“But I _am_ national security!”

“You mean you’re with the CSIS? Wow, you got here fast. I mean, I only just made the call.”

“That isn’t what I-”

“You’re with the government?” the lady asked. “Oh god, it’s worse than we thought!”

“The threat is real!”

“No! I’m not with the CSIS!” Canada shouted.

“Then…you’re a Mountie? But there aren’t any Mounties in Québec.”

“That guy’s RCMP? But he doesn’t have a horse!”

“It’s a mountless Mountie!”

 “The Europeans got to his horse!”

Canada sighed. He just had to open his mouth.

“If everyone’ll just calm down-” the Officer tried.

“They’re coming, they’re really coming!”

“I’m sure if we just-” he tried again.

“This is the end!”

“We’re going to die!”

The lone American in the crowd (who had wandered over as the excitement built) whipped out his handgun (which of course he had) and fired a round in the air, immediately silencing the hysterical crowd. They all turned to face him, eyes wide with fear.

The American turned to face the police officer. “Sorry, Officer, I didn’t know how else to make them quiet.”

“Oh. Well, yes, um, thank you,” the officer replied, a little shocked. “Anyway, as I was saying…RUN!”

At the order of their beloved Force, the swarm dissipated quickly and Canada was swept away in the chaos.

“Hmm? Where’d he go?” France asked, blinking.

“What’s wrong?” England asked.

“The man. He just…vanished.”

“Are you sure he was even there to begin with?”

“I thought he was.” The taller blond stood up. “But maybe I really have had too much wine without noticing. It's a habit, you know. Hey, what’s that?” he asked, nodding ahead of him.

England looked over his shoulder. “It’s a…man?”

“Must be American, if you can see him too.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Who else comes here? Most of the world can’t even remember the nation exists, much less visit it.”

“True…but why’s he running?” England asked.

“A jog in the wilderness is a common thing.”

Arthur's eyes narrowed as he studied the man's retreating back. “In a business suit?”

“Well-”

“With a brief case?”

The two shared a look.

“Americans. I’ll never understand them.”

**3 Days Later...**

“See Gil? I told you it would look better on me than Alfred,” Canada said.

Prussia grinned. “You do look pretty good in it.”

“Hey, don’t get any ideas! This is a onetime thing!”

“Aw, c’mon Mattie, how can you put that on and expect me not to get any ideas?”

“Ha! I told you I could find Matthieu’s house!” a voice drifted in through the window.

Canada froze. “Oh no.”

“Birdie? You ok?”

“Merde, I thought they would have given up by now!” Canada swore, options racing through his head.

“Mattie, what’s wrong?”

There was rapping on the door. “Hello? Matthieu, Papa’s here!” France called from outside.

“Oh,” Prussia said in understanding. “It’s ok, we’ll just wait them out. They’ll think no one’s home and leave.”

“Francis, I don’t think anyone’s home…” England sighed.

“See?” Prussia smirked. “Now, where were we?” he asked, pulling his boyfriend close.

“Gilbert…” Canada breathed,

“That’s alright, I’ll just use my house key!” France chirped.

Prussia froze. “House key? Seriously? You gave _him_ a house key?” the albino gritted his teeth.

“He stole it! Maple, now what do we do?”

“Come on.” Prussia grabbed the blond’s wrist and dragged him from the couch into the bedroom.

“Gil, I love you, but I’m not having sex when my parents are about to barge in.”

Prussia rolled his eyes and dragged his lover into the closet, closing the door behind him.

“What are you-”

“Sh.” Prussia his hand over Canada’s mouth to quiet him.

“Matthieu? Anyone home?” Francis called out tentatively.

“Hey, Mattie,” Prussia whispered.

“Hm?”

“We’re alone. In the closet.”

Canada lowered Prussia’s arm so he could speak. “What are you get-mph!” Canada was silenced as Prussia’s lips clashed against him and he found himself in the paler man’s embrace.

* * *

 

“He’s not in the kitchen, Francis. I really don’t think he’s here.” England called.

“Maybe he’s in the shower. Hold on.” Francis walked into the bedroom and knocked on the bathroom door. “Matthieu, are you in there?” he called.

* * *

 

Canada was doing his best to keep quiet, but whenever Prussia kissed him it was hard to maintain control.  The kiss was gradually getting more passionate and Canada stumbled backwards from the force. His hand, which had previously been entwined in his boyfriend’s hair, instinctively shot backwards, trying to grab hold of something, and managed to latch onto the door’s handle.  This in turn lead to unintentionally pushing it down, the door opening, and the couple toppling out to land on the carpet.

Francis turned around at the sound of the noise. “Oh, Matthieu, there you – ohonhonhonhon~ If you two wanted some alone time, you should have just- Oh mon dieu.” France’s breath caught as he took in the sight in front of him.

England burst into the room. “Francis, I head a crash, are you- Matthew?”

Canada looked back and forth between the two, eyes wide, before sighing in defeat. “Hi.”

“Matthieu, why didn’t you _tell_ me you liked cross-dressing? I could have-”

“I don’t like it, Papa.”

“But you’re wearing a dress,” Arthur pointed out. “Actually, isn’t that the same dress Alfred was in a few days ago?”

Canada sighed. He knew he’d never live this down. “Yeah, it is…” he admitted. “But I’m only in it because Gil thought I couldn’t pull it off, which I totally can. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to change back into my manly clothes,” Canada huffed, lifting the hem and striding into the bathroom to change.

“But you look so cute, mon cher!”

“Aw, Mattie, do you have to?” Prussia complained as Canada shut the door behind him.

“You enjoy the sight of mon petit Matthieu in a dress?” Francis asked, eying Prussia up.

“Um….Well, that is to say…” Prussia grimaced. Canada was France’s precious son. Of course he would get protective, even if Prussia was one of his best friends.

But instead of yelling, Francis smiled widely. “Have some more,” he winked, shoving a large shopping bag into Gilbert’s hands. “Just make sure to take pictures and send them to moi.”

Gilbert blinked before grinning himself. “I love you, Franny.”

“We’ll leave you two love birds alone. Come along, mon cher,” he said, intertwining his fingers with Arthur’s and leading him out of the bedroom, but stopping as they passed the dresser  when he spotted a newspaper with a picture of the two Europeans surrounded by screaming people on the front page. “‘Mayhem in Montreal?’ I don’t remember this…”

* * *

 

It was only after France and England had left that Canada finally emerged from the bathroom, clad in a red sweatshirt and a pair of jeans.

“They’re gone already?” he asked Prussia, who was sitting at the edge of the bed.

“They got what they came for. Brought some presents, too.”

“Really? Let me see!” Canada took the bag from Prussia and sifted through the material inside. “Oh you’ve got to be…I’m not wearing these.”

“But Mattie!” Prussia whined. “They’d look so good on you!”

“I don’t care, I’m not wearing them,” the blond said, rising.

Prussia sighed. “It’s probably for the best. These look rather small. They probably wouldn’t fit you, anyway. I mean, look how tiny this one is,” he said, pulling one out of the bag. “There’s no way you could get it on.”

Canada froze and turned around. “Give me that,” he snapped, snatching the cloth and making his way into the bathroom.

Gilbert smirked. _Totally not a ‘onetime thing’._


	9. Chapter 7

Germany cleared his throat. "Thank you for all gathering here. Antonio and I have some questions-"

"Hey, potato bastard, shut up! I'm trying to enjoy my breakfast."

"Lovi, that's mean! Ludwig's just trying to-"

"I don't care," the older Italy sniffed. "Breakfast is a time for waking up. There's no room for meetings. Requires too much thought."

"But fratello! You had to have thought before breakfast in the past!" Italy leaned in closer to his brother. "Haven't you and Toni ever had morning-" Romano clapped his hand over his brother's mouth.

"…You were saying, fucker?"

"R-right. Well." Germany stammered, face red. "As I was saying, Antonio and I have some questions regarding America."

"We do?" Spain blinked.

Germany blinked. "Yes," he said slowly. "…Does your head still hurt?"

"How'd you know?" Spain gasped.

Germany stared for a moment longer before turning back to the brothers. "Anyway."

"Toni, your head hurts?" Feliciano asked, concerned, shooting up from the table. "I'll go get you some pain killers!"

"Feliciano!" Germany yelled at the retreating form before sighing. Why couldn't anything ever be easy?

The younger brother quickly returned, handed Spain some pills and, with a smile, sat back down. Then he blinked at Germany's expression. "Luddy, are you ok? The vein on your head is sticking out. Do you have a headache too? I'll go get some more pills," he rambled, getting out of his chair once again before being stopped by his lover.

"Italy! Sit down!" the blond shouted.

Italy blinked before tearing up. "Ludwig doesn't like me anymore!"

"What?" Germany blinked. "What makes you think that?"

"You called me 'Italy!' You never call me that anymore outside of meetings!"

"It just…I didn't mean it."

"Yes you did!"

"No, I'm sorry, Feli."

Romano, realizing the two needed a few minutes to sort things out, grudgingly grabbed his lover's arm and led him out of the room. "Come on, let me show you my new…towels."

Spain went to protest, not wanting to see little Feliciano upset, but knew better than to argue against Romano showing him anything he bought.

* * *

Five minutes later, the Mediterranean couple returned hand in hand.

"Are you sure those were new towels, Lovi? They look just like your old ones."

Romano scowled. He hadn't actually thought Spain paid attention to his towel collection. "Oh look," he said, nudging his head towards the table where his brother was sitting in the blond nation's lap. "They made up. Let's go try to eat again. Maybe this time the bastard won't ruin it."

Spain, dragged his lover back to the table. "Is it true? Did you guys make up?" he asked excitedly.

"Ve~ It was just a big misunderstanding!" Feliciano beamed, kissing Ludwig on the cheek, making the man blush. "Now what was it you were going to ask before?"

Germany froze. What if Spain was right? What if he would get in trouble for not knowing if he had a child without knowing? He had only just finished consoling his boyfriend.  _No, it has to be done_. He took a deep breath.

"Hey guys!" America's voice bellowed as he ran down the stairs.

_Oh for fuck's sake!_

* * *

Germany glanced around the room. Italy was making dinner in the kitchen. Spain and Romano were talking at the table. No sign of America.

_Perfect._

"Feliciano, Romano, may I ask you something?"

"Of course you can!" Italy yelled quickly before his brother could deny the request.

"I know that America's family, and please don't be mad," Germany added quickly, hoping to save himself if only a little, "but whose son is he?"

Romano eyed him up. "What do you mean?"

"Well, is he yours and Spain's, or," he blushed furiously, "is he Feliciano's and…mine?"

"What are you talking about?" Feliciano asked, tilting his head. "America's our fratellino."

"No he's not," Romano interjected. "He's our son."

"Ours meaning-"

"No, he's our younger brother!" Italy insisted over Spain's question.

"Feli, he called me 'mom.' He's our son."

"Yeah, but you also called him our younger brother back in Japan."

"Think for a minute, Feliciano. Did I spoil you the way I spoil America?"

"Well, no, but we grew up-"

"Right. Because he's my boy."

"But Lovi, I've always wanted to be a fratello like you!"

"We- Really?" Romano paused, touched, before quickly shaking his head. "No, no! He's our son!"

Spain, who had slowly shrunk back to Germany, leaned over to his companion. "I think we should leave."

"That might be wise…"

The two slowly backed away from the bickering brothers, and were almost out of sight when the doorbell rang.

"Hey, West, let me in!"

"Oh no."  _As if this wasn't enough of a mess already_.

"Gil?" Spain asked as he opened the door. "What are you doing here? I thought you were with Canada."

"I was, but Matt had to do some work so he kicked me out. So not awesome! So when I got home I thought I'd come visit West and mini-me. Where is mini-me, anyway?" Prussia asked, glancing around the room.

"Bruder," Germany asked slowly, dreading the answer. "Have you been drinking?"

"No more than usual, why? Am I even more awesome than usual?" the albino grinned.

"Great, the other potato bastard is here too," Romano muttered under his breath.

"Hey, what's all the noise? I want to be loud, too!" America called, running down the stairs to join in the festivities.

"Mini-me! There you are! How's it going?" Prussia grinned.

"'Mini-me?' Is that me?" America asked, cocking his head.

"Of course it's you!"

"But we're the same height. How am I mini?"

"Because you're awesome like me. But not as awesome as me."

"What are you talking about? I'm the best! I'm the hero!"

"You got your awesomeness from me."

"My awesomeness is original!"

"Oh no," Germany groaned. "Here he goes."

"I taught you your awesomeness, Mini-me, when I saved you from England, the Abductor."

"We're sure he's not Prussian, right?" Spain whispered to Germany.

"Well, he did spend a lot of time with him and France – Oh no."

In the midst of the Battle of Awesomeness, a song had begun to play, gradually getting louder as it approached the house.

"For the last time-" Prussia argued.

"Shut up!" America yelled, voice suddenly more serious than any of them could remember. "Shush!" he cried again when the Prussian went to protest. "Do you hear that?"

The nations all stopped to listen.

"I don't hear anything…" Germany said.

"No, wait, I hear it!" Italy exclaimed. It sounds like-"

"ICE CREAM!" America shouted gleefully, running over to the window, Spain hot on his heels.

"I didn't even know you had ice cream trucks here, Lovi!" Spain said joyfully.

"And Spain's starting to make more sense," Germany muttered.

"I want some!" America cried, running to the door.

"Me too! Me too!" Italy chirped excitedly, rushing over as well. Spain followed suit.

The result: three fully grown nations crammed in a doorway, pushing and shoving each other trying to get out.

"Screw this," America said, backing out of the tangle of limbs and running to his only other exit: the closed window.

The cry of "My Venetian glass!" was drowned out as the aforementioned glass shattered.

America, ignoring the shards of glass embedded in his skin for more important matters, pulled out a wad of fifties and began waving them in the air, trying to call the attention of the truck. That was, until he realized it was parked in front of the house, which would normally be strange, but honestly, what hadn't been strange in his life recently?

"I want the biggest thing you got!" he yelled through the window, bouncing on the balls of his feet excitedly.

A giant bowl of ice cream immediately popped out with a sunflower sticking out from it. "No charge for my favorite American, da?" Russia smiled down at his boyfriend.

"Ivan? I didn't know you had a summer job," America commented while he shoveled the ice cream into his mouth.

"Da! Just for today. Would you like to come to my house?" Ivan asked, smiling.

"I would, but I dunno if I can. Prussia came over to- mpphhh!" America's shout of surprise was muffled by the hand that grabbed his face and pulled him in.

As Italy and Spain blinked in surprise as the baby of the family was pulled through the service window, a female cry of "Punch it!" was heard and the truck roared to life, speeding down the road.

"Natasha?" America asked, once his face was free. "What are you doing? I'm pretty sure kidnapping your boss for your former one is treason."

"It's not kidnapping if you want it, Al," Black Widow winked. "I like to think of it as a mutually beneficial agreement. Keep on the good side of both of you."

"I always liked you," America said, grinning at her, before he was attacked with a bear hug from Russia.

Clint glanced in the rearview mirror, looking at his passengers. He wasn't really sure who Ivan was, why he wanted to abduct a 19 year old boy, or why Nat felt the need to help him, but the kid didn't seem distressed and he was really hoping he could use this to get Natasha to buy him the latest issue of Green Arrow as a repayment.

* * *

The European nations spilled out of the Italies' house, this time in a much more orderly fashion after Romano threatened to blind them with a spoon if anyone dare break anything else.

"No! The ice cream truck!" Spain cried at the same time Romano shouted "My baby!" Romano turned on his partner with an incredulous glare.

Spain stared back at Lovi and quickly corrected, "...I mean, my son!"

* * *

Clint and Natasha had just boarded the plane when their phones went off.

"Another crisis in Manhattan, Fury?" Clint asked.

"Far worse than that," the deep voice boomed over the phone. "America's been kidnapped."

Natasha's eyes widened. "Sorry crshhh we're crshhh up crshhh-" she mumbled as she disconnected the phone, hoping her boss would believe the cover, but severely doubting it.

Clint stared dumbfounded at the phone.

"How the fuck can you kidnap a country? Old coot's losing his mind…" he mumbled as he turned away to sit back down.

* * *


	10. Chapter 8

Canada sighed pleasantly as he took a sip of his maple tea. “I don’t know why I never thought to sweeten it with syrup before, Kumajiro.”

“Who?” the bear asked, tilting his head.

“Canada!” the nation whisper-shouted, exasperated. He flipped his file to the next page, carefully reading all of his boss’ notes, only looking away when his phone rang. “Please don’t be trying to make me crossdress again,” he moaned upon seeing the caller ID. “Hello?” he asked tentatively.

“Please tell me your brother is there,” England’s voice rang through the line.

“Al? No, I haven’t seen him since Japan. I thought he was still in Italy.” Canada paused, thinking of all of the havoc his twin was likely raising overseas. “What did he do this time?”

“Gotten himself kidnapped. I had hoped Alfred had finally decided enough was enough and had just left the Italies’ and they were overreacting, but it would appear they were not.”

 Canada gaped at the phone, disbelieving. “Are we talking about the same America  regularly threw bulls as a child?”

“Unfortunately. Whoever it was has to know him well. They lured him away with ice cream.”

 _That sounds like Alfie._ “Inside job?”

“Most likely, but still hard to say. We’ve made the Italies’ house base if you’d like to join us.”

“Of course! I’ll be right-Wait a minute. You’ve already set up an HQ? How long has America been missing?”

“W-well, it’s been-” England coughed.

“Arthur,” Canada warned.

“We would have called sooner, lad, but-”

“How. Long.” Canada repeated, gritting his teeth.

England sighed on the other side of the line. “Four days.”

“Four- _Four days?_ It took you _four days_ to think to call _me,_ his _brother_?” Canada seethed.

“I really am sorry; I had assumed Francis would have called you.”

“Papa’s there? Let me talk to him,” the younger nation ordered.

“He’s out right now. Prussia asked him to-”

Canada clenched his free hand. His boyfriend knew his brother was missing, but hadn’t even bothered to tell him?

“Get me Gil. Now,” he commanded.

“R-right, of course. Hold on just a moment.” There was some muffled shouting in the background, and then a groan of “Oh fuck he’s going to kill me” before someone else spoke into the phone.

“…Hello?” Prussia asked, cautiously.

“Hello, Gilbert,” Canada said, voice so sweet you could practically see his eye twitching. “What’s new with you?”

“Mattie, I am so, _so_ sorry I forgot to call you. I’ve been really busy trying to find my nephew – did I tell you I have a nephew – that I didn’t get a chance to tell you about his kidnapping.”

“He’s my twin brother, Gil!” Canada shouted. “How could you forget to tell me?”

The line was silent for a moment.

“Oh, fuck. I forgot America was your brother.”

“How could you forget? We look exactly the same!” Canada cried, incredulous.

“Nah, you’re cuter,” Gil said, distractedly. “Hold on.” There was some muttering in German for a minute. “Sorry about that, Matt. Like I said, little busy over here.  My nephew’s missing.”

“Nephew?” Canada asked, not liking where this was going.

“Yeah! Well, maybe nephew. Still working out the details. But I might be the awesome uncle to America!” Prussia said, clearly proud.

“Gil,” Canada began slowly, “you realize that if he’s your nephew, I am too, right?”

“What are you talking about, Birdie?”

“…You forgot we were related again, didn’t you?”

“Scheiße!”

Canada banged his head against the table. “I’m dating an idiot.”

* * *

 

Inside the Italies' house, a full-on rescue operation was underway. On the walls were pictures of any known persons that America might have revealed himself to, from US government officials to countries’ leaders known to harbor hostile feelings toward the young nation. On the dining room table was a world map with pins stuck in it and notes and symbols scattered throughout it. Agents from multiple countries were geared up ready to go on a moment's notice while others were buried knees deep in paperwork, trying to dig up any clues as to where the American might have been taken. There were commands being shouted in several different languages while papers and files were passed around like it was going out of style. There may or may not have been a small explosion in the background.

Gathered around the map were the only countries who were aware of America's predicament. It was kept to family to ensure that anyone who might want to take advantage of America's current weakness would not be alerted. Germany was labeling the route they had seen America been taken in as far as they could with city cameras while Italy clung onto him, looking as if he were about to burst into tears again, but before long he was dashing back into the kitchen with a cry of "Where are my manners? These agents must all be so hungry!" and began to cook pasta and bake anything he could find in the house. Prussia was apologizing to Canada for the sixth time that hour for not calling him. Spain and Romano were currently talking to a field agent checking on their status, while France and England were rewatching the surveillance videos, hoping to catch something they had previously missed.

It was during this flurry of activity that the missing boy strode into the house, grabbed a soda from the fridge, walked to the table that the nations had all gathered back around in the last minute to discuss recent discoveries, and stared down at the map with them for a moment before opening his mouth.

"You guys planning that giant soccer match or something?" America asked, slurping his drink.

"It's called football, Alfredo. We spoke about this!" Romano yelled to the taller nation, about ready to have a stoke.

"We're trying to find Mini-Me," Prussia mumbled, deep in thought.

A beat passed before it sunk in, and all of the frantic nations snapped their heads up at once to stare in shock at America.

The blond nation glanced between his family’s incredulous faces in confusion.

"...What?"

* * *

 

After many shouts of joy, relief, and a couple cries of "I'm going to kill that commie bastard!”, the various agencies were sent back to their respective bases and the Italies' home returned to normal. England, France, and Canada had returned to their homes and Prussia had left to go visit (bother) Austria and Hungary. This left Germany, Spain, America, and his two self-proclaimed guardians fighting over what movie to watch.

It was right around America's reenactment of the Battle for Endor (complete with stuffed bears) that the door was slammed open.

"What's this about my baby being kidnapped?" Finland demanded before blinked, staring at the gruff German and the pissed Italian. "Sorry, that was rude; I knew I should have knocked first. I was going to, I really was, but I was just so worried. I hope I didn't interrupt anything, I didn't mean to. I really should have had at least the common courtesy to ring the bell, but-" A firm hand grasped the blond's shoulder.

"Yer r’ntin' 'gain," Sweden grumbled.

While the Italies had stepped back to cower behind their lovers ("I'm not hiding, I just like it better back here, damn it!") at the sight of the taller Scandinavian country, Finland just blushed slightly.

"Sorry," he whispered bashfully. "I do that when I'm nervous."

The momentary silence was broken by the Imperial March.

"Sorry, that's the bossman. It's usually not good news when he calls," America explained to the confused faces around him, fishing his phone out of his pocket. "Gotta take this," he added, stepping to the side of the room and whispering fervently into the phone.

 "What did you mean by your baby?" Germany asked, tearing his gaze away from his possible son.

Finland blinked. "America," he stated, as if it were obvious.

"How the hell would he be your kid?" Romano slid back into the cover he had stepped out of when Sweden's gaze turned to him.

"He looks just like me! If he's anyone's kid, he's mine!"

"But he has the Italy Curl," Italy explained. "He had to have gotten that from us."

"Look at me, then look at him. Tell me you don't see it," Finland objected. "I have to be the father."

"Moth'r," Sweden corrected.

"Right, Moth-no, I'd be a daddy too!" Finland flushed. "J-just look at America."

The European nations glanced to the corner America had stalked off to and froze.

“He’s gone,” Germany said.

"I'm going to kill that commie bastard," Romano growled.

"He's not with me," Russia called from the kitchen.

"The fuck did you come from?" Romano shrieked.

"The basement," the silver haired man said, appearing in the room with a bottle of vodka.

“We don’t have a basement!” Romano snapped. When that just made Russia smile, Romano reigned in the urge to take a large step backward to hide behind Spain again.                                                

"My fratellino is missing again?" Italy cried.

"This is your fault," Romano growled, rounding on Finland. "You came barging in, telling him we're not his real parents and bring _that_ scary-ass bastard," he nudged his head toward Sweden, who frowned, causing Romano to take a small step backwards, "and now he's run away, terrified."

“Don’t blame this on Ber-” Sweden stepped in front of his partner, shielding him from Romano and cutting off his defense.

“Not his f’lt,” he glared. Romano slipped back behind Spain.

"He's going to be cold and alone on the streets! And what if a pedophile gets him!" Italy clung onto Germany. "You have to save him, Luddy!"

"...I think he'll be fine."

"No, Italy's right!" Finland said, distraught. "America's still so young. Any number of people could take advantage of his nativity."

"He's over 300. I think he can take on a human."

"Berwald," Finland said to his lover, ignoring Germany's logic, "you have to find him."

"...Has anyone tried calling him?" Spain asked. “He might not actually be missing,” he continued when the nations all turned to stare at him.”He might have just stepped outside.” The nations continued to gape. "What? I have my smart moments." A beat. "Hey, he looks like America!" Spain said, pointing to Finland. A collective sigh of relief was let go.

"Oh thank god, I thought I had finally lost it," Romano said, pulling out his phone. "Huh. He texted me." He paused. "Why would he text me when I'm standing right here?

"It's an American thing," Russia explained. "Sometimes he texts me when we're sitting right next to each other."

The nations pondered over that.

"America is weird," Italy thought aloud. The countries hummed in agreement.

"Romano, what did the text say?" Germany asked, getting the group back on task.

"Hm?" Romano blinked. "Oh, it says he went home because he has work to do and will be busy for a few days.”

"Oh." Spain said staring blankly at his companions. "Now what?"

"Hey, Feli," Romano whispered into his brother's ear. "I think it’s finally time.”

“For pasta?” the younger Italy asked hopefully.

“No, you moron; to initiate our plan.”

“But fratello,” Italy replied, tilting his head, “who are we running away from? There are a lot of people in here.”

“We’re not running away from anyone, Feli. We’re going to make _them_ run from _us_ ,” Romano smirked.

“Oh!” Realization dawned on Italy. “We’re going to play tag!”

“I give up.”


	11. Chapter 9

“Oh McDonald’s, how I’ve missed you,” America moaned as he took a bite of his Big Mac. The food the Italies made was great, but nothing could beat his Mickey D’s. _And baseball’s back!_ He grabbed the remote. _America’s the best._

“Yo, Italies! Do you want...oh,” he frowned. He wasn’t used to being without them. _I think I actually miss them and their antics._

America was brought out of his thoughts by a loud banging at his door. He bolted up from the couch and ran over to see who it was.

“Hey, Bossman!” The blond said with a smile as he pulled the door all the way open. “What brings you here?”

“Mr. America, just what exactly have you and the two Italian brothers been doing for the past few weeks?” the president asked as he stepped into the nation’s house.

“Uh….” America’s face paled as he thought over the events of their time together. “…Chillin’?”

“So you haven’t promised to back them militarily should they attempt to invade another country?” the human said suspiciously.

“What? No! What are you talking about? We never even discussed-” America was interrupted by the tune of ‘Let it Be.’ He held up a finger to the president as he answered his phone. “Hey, Iggy, now’s not really a good time, can I-”

“No you bloody well cannot!” the superpower flinched away from his phone.

“Geez, Artie, there’s no need to yell. I haven’t even done anything.” He paused. “Have I?”

“Oh,” England growled, “so you didn’t tell Romano that if he decided to invade my pool house that you would give your full support?”

“No! Why would I say that? You don’t have a pool house. You don’t even have a pool!”

“That’s what I said!” There was a sigh on the other end of the line. “Just…deal with them, would you? I have enough to deal with without them wreaking havoc in my own backyard.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll talk to them.”

“Thanks. Glad to be home, then?”

“Oh yeah. See ya later, dude.” America disconnected before turning to face the president. “Sorry, boss. I think I figured out what’s going on. I’ll deal with it right now.”

“See to it that you do.” The president turned to leave.

“Hold on a sec, I have a report for you. I was gonna swing by the office tomorrow, but lemme grab it now since you’re here.” The nation walked to his room.

“Glad to see you weren’t slacking on your vacation,” the leader smirked, following his country. He knew that while America may appear to be a slacker, he was actually over dedicated to his job.

“It wasn’t a vacation, I was kidnapped! They made me get suits and – oh god, the shoes. There were so many shoes.” America shuddered.

“Well it certainly sounds like you had your hands full.” His brow furrowed as his eyes landed on America’s closet. “Interesting hobby you got there.”

“Huh?” America’s eyes followed the path of his superior’s to the closet full of dresses and turned bright red. “Those aren’t - I mean – there was a fire-” he stammered.

“And the only thing left in stock _anywhere_ in the country was dresses?”

“No, but I-”

“Hey, what you do in your free time is up to you. If you’re more comfortable as a girl-”

“No! That’s not – I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but you know what? Here’s that file.” America thrust the folder into his boss’s hands and began pushing him out the door. “It’s been great seeing you, have a good night, if you mention this to anyone you’re dead.” He slammed the door in his boss’s laughing face.

_And to think I actually missed those assholes._

* * *

 

“Turkey, my man, what’s up? What can the good ol’ US of A do for you?” America slurred into his phone.

“You’re drunk.”

“Hell yeah, I am! This is the land of freedom!”

“Right. Any-”

“This is America! And I’m America! I’m America but I’m in America! How weird is that?” the blond nation laughed.

“So weird.  So I hear you’re invading me?”

“Ew, that’s gross.”

“Mature,” the older nation said shortly, “but not what I-”

“And I have a boyfriend.”

“I know.” Turkey sighed. “ Listen-”

“A really hot boyfriend. Like, so hot.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“What? Why?”

“You’re drunk. I don’t have time to deal with this World War III bullshit.”

“What war? There’s a war? Am I in it? I must be, I’m the hero!”

“You’re causing it.”

“What? No, the hero _saves_ the day. You might want to brush up on your American.”

“That’s not even…” Turkey paused. Some battles just weren’t worth it.  “So you’re not starting a war?”

“Nope. Unless it’s on how awesome I am.”

“Enjoy your hangover tomorrow.” Turkey hung up.

“Damn straight! Yo, bartender, another!”

* * *

 

“Oh god, too loud, too loud, shit, why did I drink so much?” America groped blindly for his blaring phone for a moment before snagging it and letting out a bleary, “…Hello?”

“America!” Switzerland shouted. “What the hell?”

“Not so loud…” America groaned.

“Maybe you should have thought of that before Italy invaded me. Me! The neutral country!”

“…Wha?”

“The Italies,” Switzerland pronounced slowly, “called me to say they were taking over and that you were backing them 100 percent.”

“I really have to clean up their mess again?” America sighed. “Man, you’re the fifth call this week.”

“America, this action clearly violates-”

“I’m not-”

“I’m calling for a meeting to discuss your punishment.”

“But I didn’t even – hello? Shit.”  America ran his hand through his hair. “How did I even get into this mess?”

* * *

 

The conference room was loud and rambunctious when America walked in. _Well, I guess things haven’t changed_. As soonas he walked in, several nations snapped to face him and assaulted him with a barrage of questions.

“America, how could you?”

“Al, you said you’d never-”

“Your own brother?!”

“You son of a bitch!”

The nation in question, however, just stared blankly back.

“Enough!” Germany shouted. “Alfred, please explain the reasoning behind your attacks. Surely we can work something out.”

“I…don’t know,” America answered honestly. “It’s not me! It’s the Italies!”

“What, you expect us to believe those idiots are behind this?” France asked. “The two of them together don’t have the brains to dream up an attack, let alone the courage to pull one off!”

“Alfredo! There you are!” Romano burst through the door.

America looked pointedly at the gathered nations before turning to his newest family members. “Hey guys, do you mind explaining-”

“There’s no time!” Italy cut him off.

“But I-“

“Come on, we have to go take them over.” Romano grabbed America’s arm and began to lead him to the door insistently.

“Why?” America demanded as he was dragged from the meeting. “Who?”

“Everyone!” Italy giggled gleefully. The door slammed shut behind them.

A beat of silence passed.

“Well that certainly explains a lot,” Hungary said.

* * *

 

“Italy, Romano, wait!” America shouted as he was led forward. “Guys, stop. Stop!” He pulled back quick, causing the two brothers to stumble backwards.

“What’s the matter?”

“What are we doing?” America demanded.

“Taking over the world,” Romano said slowly, as though it should be obvious.

“But…why? You might not remember, but you don’ exactly have the best track record of war…”

“Because of you, silly!”

“Me?” America asked, pointing to himself. “What did I do?”

“You ‘re strong. With your help, we can take over.”

“…Why?”

“Way back before you even existed, we ruled the Earth. The Roman Empire was the strongest around. Now look at us: the laughing stock of the world. Well we’re not weak anymore-”

“Last week you ran from an ant, fratello!” Italy helpfully reminded.

“Not helping, Feli.”

“Guys! No! Listen, I’m not your son or your brother or whatever it is you think I am. And I’m not going to start any wars.”

“You’re not. _We_ are, and you’re supporting us in our quest for conquest.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because it would make our boss very happy.”

 “Wait,” America said, blinking, “your boss ordered this?”

“Of course not! It’s a surprise!” Feli smiled.

“…What?”

 “He knows we’d never take over the world. I mean, look at us. You’ve got this idiota,” Romano nudged his head in his brother’s direction, who was staring in wonder at a butterfly as it flew by. “And you’ve got me. And I’m not saying I’m not smart, but me and battle? We don’t get along.”

“Then…why?”

“Our boss…” Romano admitted after a pause, “he doesn’t like us. Well, he likes Feli, everyone likes Feli, but he doesn’t like _us_.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What we are…we’re not cut out for it. So we thought…. _I_ thought that maybe if we could bring back some of our glory days, maybe he’d like us better. Respect us.”

“And you think violence is the way?” America said sternly. He crossed his arms over his chest and huffed. “No, you’re just going to create a bigger mess. You want respect, you need to earn it. Start taking your responsibilities seriously. Go to meetings, read the documents, actively participate in your government. Don’t go off starting a war.”

“But everyone thinks that’s we’re weak,” Romano protested. “We could-”

“Yeah, okay, the Italies are weak. So what? You guys are how old? Use that. Use your knowledge of your country, its history. Just…don’t make people die for nothing, okay?” America ran a hand through his hair. “Just think about it. I’m going to go back in there and clear up this mess, okay?” He walked back to the conference room. “Oh, and Lovino?” he called back over his shoulder. “You’re wrong. You and your brother, you do a good job.” The door shut behind him.

“Hey, guys, so about that…” America rubbed his neck sheepishly as he reentered the conference room.

“Don’t worry about it; we saw all we needed to. Consider the charges dropped,” Switzerland said.

“Yeah, and if those idiots are giving you a hard time, we can-”

“No, don’t worry about it,” America interrupted. “They were just going through a mid-life crisis or something. It’s fine. It’s all been taken care of. The Italies won’t be bothering me – or any of you – again.”

* * *

 

 “Fratello?” Italy looked at his brother, eyes red.

“Feli, what’s wrong?”

“Did Alfredo really mean what he said? That he’s not our America?”

“Of course not. He’s just stressed is all.” Romano took a good look at his sniffling brother and sighed, opening his arms. “Come here.”

In an instant Italy was clutching his twin tight. “I don’t want him to leave us.”

“Me neither, Feli. But, hey, it’s okay.” Romano gently pulled his brother’s face out of his shoulder and looked him in the eye. “Alfredo talked me out of world domination. He was right; it was a stupid idea. But it shows he cares, okay? We’ll win him back. And if I can’t, who can say no to you?”

Italy giggled. “Not even you.”

 

 


	12. Chapter 10

As it turned out, America's time off from the Italies was short-lived. Just two days after the emergency meeting, he received a call from his favorite wannabe relatives. For a moment he just stared down at it, contemplating whether or not he wanted to deal with that headache. Finally, the nice side of him (or was that Canada yelling at him stop the damn ringtone before he smashed his head in with his hockey stick? Kid was a demon when a match was on…) won over. He took a deep breath to brace himself before answering.

"…Hello?" he asked tentatively.

"Is it true you have a place called Little Italy over there?"

"Fratello, starting a conversation like that is rude!" Italy's voice could be heard in the background. "We're supposed to be teaching him how to be Italian. That means manners!"

"Only on the northern side," Romano muttered under his breath.

"Wait-hold up." America interjected. "'Teaching him how to be Italian?'"

"Si. You're West Italy, remember?"

"And we talked about how I wasn't Italian the other day, remember?"

"But you're America," Romano said pointedly.

"Yes, exactly!" America threw his hand in the air. Finally, some sense was being made.

"So you're Italian." Or not.

"Yes – no! No, I'm not Italian, I-" America sighed, exasperated, and rubbed his forehead. How did Germany put up with Feliciano and his lack of logic? "Listen, this whole thing started because of that Amerigo guy, right? You know he didn't actually come to America, right?"

There was a brief moment of silence on the other end. "What are you talking about? Of course he did. That's why it's called America, idiota."

"He went to South America. And the West Indies, so I guess North America too, but not like America America – not like me. Seriously, don't you guys know your own history?"

"Give us a break; we're not all children with only a few hundred years to remember, you know."

"Fratello, fratello!" Italy gasped excitedly.

"What, what? Will you stop hitting me?" his brother snapped.

"Don't you realize what this means? There are other Italies!"

"Oh my god, you're right." Those were words Romano never thought he'd say.

"Think of all the little South Italies!"

"I'm South Italy," Romano huffed.

"Think of all the souther South Italies!"

Romano frowned in thought. "And the poor fools don't even know what greatness they're a part of."

"We need to start planning! Where to first? Barbados? Columbia? Brazil?"

"I'm not so sure we should go to Brazil…Toni's still upset that Portugal got it."

"But Rio!" Italy whined.

"You make a good point. And what Antonio doesn't know won't hurt him."

"I think there was a flight in the terminal across the way that's going to El Salvador in ten minutes. If we run we can catch it."

"Or we could just drive down to Mexico. We're already in Texas. Should take us the same amount of time with me behind the wheel."

America, who had only half been paying attention, perked up at the mention of his glasses. "What are you doing in Texas?"

"We wanted to see the rest of your country. And we will be having words when we get back from our trip, mister. Serious words." America could picture Italy's finger waggle.

"Yeah, where the fuck is the Italian part of this god damn state? It's all guns and cowboy boots."

"Yeah, Texas is pretty great." America smiled fondly.

"We'll discuss this when we get back. We have forty family reunions to plan. Lovi, call Mr. Russo-"

America's smile grew when the Italies hung up. Sure, he felt bad for his southern nations, but he couldn't help himself. Finally he could get some peace and quiet in his life.

"Al, did you see that shot?" Canada yelled, jumping up excitedly in response to a goal being made in the hockey game they were watching. "It was like bam!" Canada imitated the shot, slamming his hockey stick into his puck, sending it flying towards the wall. It ricocheted off, heading straight towards his brother.

America, who had been relishing in his freedom, had not expected an airborne projectile to appear in his proximity, and a loud crack sounded as it collided with his skull.

"Ow," he said quietly and dropped to the floor.

Canada stared blankly at America's still form. "I just knocked out America." He shrugged. Stranger things had happened. He stepped over his brother's still body and plopped himself back down on the couch to watch the remainder of the match. "He'll be fine. Probably."

Seventeen minutes and two fights later, Canada cheered when the final buzzer rung, announcing his team's victory. "In your face, Al!" he shouted. "Your teams have nothing on mine!"

His victory dance was short lived, however, as he realized his brother wasn't respnding. America was still out for the count.

Canada frowned. He really should do something, but it wasn't like anyone would believe him, anyway. Hell, America probably wouldn't believe him. Still, he couldn't just leave him there without doing anything – it went against his natural good nature. Sighing softly, he dug his phone out of his pocket and began texting.

_A_

_Sorry about your head._

_M_

There, that should do it.

Nodding, he grabbed his sweatshirt and walked out the door. He heard New York was lovely this time of year.

* * *

_~Three days later~_

"That sucked and I hated everyone," Lovino said into his mobile as he burst through America's front door. "I don't care if they're your kids, Toni; they're a bunch of dicks."

"Hello?" America called cautiously, peering over the back of the couch.

"Alfredo, how could you lie to us? Your own parents!" Feliciano cried.

America inched forward and asked, "What are you talking about?"

"There was absolutely no Italian heritage down there!" Lovino clarified, hanging up. "There was lots of good coffee, though," he added as an afterthought.

"Down where?" the blond asked, tilting his head in confusion.

"South America! What were you thinking? 'You know what would be fun? If I sent Mom and Dad on a road trip to another continent! It would be fucking hilarious!'"

"I thought we raised you better." Feliciano just looked heartbroken.

A look of horror dawned on the young nation's face. "Oh god, Mom, Dad, I'm so sorry. I didn't-"

"Did you just call us mom and dad?" Lovino interrupted.

"Yeah. I mean, you just called yourself that, didn't you?" America asked unsurely.

"He's finally acknowledging us as his real parents!" Feliciano whispered excitedly. "We have to celebrate!"

"Shopping?" Lovino prompted.

"Oh, that sounds fun! Can I come?"

The brothers blinked and turned to face their young counterpart, who was now standing in front of them.

"I'm sorry, can you say that again?" Feliciano asked, sure he had heard incorrectly.

America frowned. Had he done something wrong? "You said you were going shopping, right? I was looking in my closet, and it's…well, I think I could use some new clothes."

There was a moment of silence as the Italies just continued to stare blankly at America.

"…What?"

"Alfredo," Feliciano asked slowly. "Are you feeling alright?"

"What, you think he's sick?"

"He's acting very…unAmerica," Feliciano stated.

"True…I haven't heard of any plagues or stock market crashes in the news the last few days, have you?" Lovino asked, brow furrowed.

"No, me neither…" Feliciano thought for a minute, quickly looking at his brother with a terrified expression when an idea struck him. "What if Arthur fed him?"

Lovino's eyes widened, and he quickly led America to a chair. "We'll fix you up something nice to eat, something Italian."

"Oh, I love Italian!"

"Damn straight you do. Feli!" he called.

"I'm on it!" the brother chirped, heading into the kitchen, and immediately walking back out. "Right after I pee!"

Lovino sighed. Some things did not need to be said.

* * *

After fixing his hair in the bathroom mirror, Feliciano was about to exit when he heard his name called.

"Hallo little Italy!" Feliciano turned around smiled at the large Russian who was standing on the other side of a floor length window on the bathroom wall. It was only after staring for a second that he realized the glass pane was  _usually_  a mirror.

"Oh, ciao Russia! Are you here to see my Alfredo again?"

"I'll come back later," the tall man demurred. "I did not know he was having the company."

"Okay, bye Russia!" Feliciano smiled as he left the room. Russia wasn't as scary anymore. Maybe they could be friends!

* * *

About an hour later, the house was graced with another unannounced guest.

"Hey Alfie, how are you feeling?" Canada asked, handing his brother an apology cheeseburger and soda.

America eyed his brother, suspicious, and grabbed the gift. "What did you do?"

Canada blinked. America didn't remember? Oh, this was brilliant. Not the concussion, of course, he felt terrible for that, but at least the superpower wouldn't hurt him now. "Nothing! I was in the neighborhood and I thought I would surprise my brother with his favorite food."

"Really? Thanks, Mattie, you're the best!" America shoved the burger into his mouth and reached his hand out, only to realize it wasn't holding anything. "Dude, where are the fries? You can't have a burger without fries. It's the law."

"Fries! I knew I forgot something! I'll be back in a few." Canada flew out the door.

"It's okay, really-" America tried to protest, but the door was already closed. "Man, kid's too easy," he smiled to himself.

* * *

"I can't believe Alfredo still has this girly shit," Lovino mumbled, washing his hands. After drying them, he turned to check on his hair in the mirror, and nearly screamed at the sight of the towering man on the other side of the glass.

"Hallo other little Italy!" Russia smiled cheerfully.

"Che cazzo!" Romano shrieked, stumbling backwards in shock. "What the-how the-"

"Do not worry. I will come back later. Goodbye, other little Italy!" Russia waved.

Romano blinked, and there was a mirror again. "…What the hell is in the water here?"

"Fratello! Hurry up! I need to pee again!"

Lovino rolled his eyes and left. "All yours." He pulled out his cell and dialed Russia's boss. There was no way Russia was just in the bathroom; he had to have imagined it. But still. Some things were worth checking out.

"Mr. Romano, how are you?" the boss answered, very politely. It was rare for another nation to call him, and he couldn't help but wonder what his country had done this time.

"Cut the crap. Do you know where that bastard Russia is?" In hindsight, not his best word choice, but desperate times and all that.

"No, I'm afraid not," the human replied, completely unphased by the Italian's language. "He left the office a couple of hours ago saying he had some paperwork at home to complete. I could transfer your call to his house, if you'd like?"

A couple of hours? There was no way he could be in America's house. But just in case… "Yeah, do it."

"Alright, just a moment then. Always a pleasure, Mr. Romano."

* * *

Russia sat in the dark corridor behind the bathroom mirror, trying to decide when would be a good time to pop in to see his beloved Alfred when his phone when off. He glanced at the caller ID to see it was a call to his home number, which were always forwarded to his cell when he was out of town.

"Hallo?" Russia's voice echoed slightly in the hallway.

"Where are you, you commie bastard?"

"Oh, hallo other little Italy!" The tall nation smiled. A phone call this soon? Romano must want to be his friend, too!

"Ciao, Russia!" Italy's voice flitted through the wall.

"Not you, silly Italy!" Russia said, covering the mic on his phone.

"But you just said-"

"Da, I'm talking you your brother," Russia explained.

"Oh, okay. Tell him I said hi!" Italy chirped.

"Your brother says hi," the Russian said, speaking into the phone again.

Romano's frown was practically audible. "Feli's in the bathroom."

Russia nodded. "He is."

"…Where did you say you were again?"

"I'm at my house, doing some very important paperwork. So unless you've got something important to discuss…" His aura traveled through the phone.

"N-no, just checking up on you. I'll just…let you go…."

"How is Alfred?" Russia asked, tilting his head. He had been in the hallway for hours without a glimpse of his man.

"He's great. I mean, he has amnesia, but-"

"Did you let England feed him?"

* * *

America fell asleep on the couch that night, and dreamt of dresses and well aimed hockey pucks. He awoke with a start when his brother draped a blanket over him.

"You!" America shouted, tackling his twin.

* * *

"So you remember everything?" Canada asked the next morning over a cup of coffee.

"Mostly. Some details are a bit fuzzy, though." America took a bite of his bacon.

"I'm sure it's nothing important."

"Yeah, you're probably right. "

* * *

"Feli, come on, you've been in there for 45 minutes!" Romano shouted through the bathroom door.

"Oh, I have to go, Ivan! It was very nice talking to you again!" Italy's voice floated through the door before exiting.

"You were on the phone with Russia in the bathroom?" Romano asked, grimacing.

His twin tilted his head. "I wasn't on the phone."

Romano's eyes widened and he darted into the room, staring at the completely normal mirror.

"Hey, you okay?" America asked, poking his head in. "I've never seen someone glare at a mirror."

"Alfredo," Romano said slowly, not sure how the younger nation would take the news, "are you aware that Russia lives behind this mirror?"

America blinked. "Of course I am. I built it for him."

"You – what?" Romano was fairly certain he had never been this confused in his life, which was quite the feat.

"Ivan and I wanted to see each other more, so I dug this tunnel and-"

"Wait, hold up," Romano interrupted. "So instead of web chatting like a normal person, you dug a tunnel."

"You can't hold hands on a computer," America explained as if it were obvious.

"To your bathroom." Maybe America took more after Spain than Romano had first thought.

"It was the easiest place," America shrugged.

"How was it – we're on the second floor – you know what, nevermind." Romano stalked out of the bathroom. "The parenting books didn't mention shit about your child digging tunnels across the earth," he muttered to himself.

* * *

Around lunch, Russia finally decided to make his presence known when the other four nations were relaxing on the couch. "Hallo, Alfred," he said, coming up through the basement door. "How are you feeling?" He leaned down and gave his boyfriend a peck on the lips.

"Uh, dude? Did you just kiss me?" Alfred asked, weirded out.

"You mean you don't remember?" Russia looked crestfallen.

"Remember what?"

"You asked me to marry you."

"I did?"

"You did?!" Canada and the Italies cried, eyes suddenly on the superpowers.

"Da, a couple of weeks ago. It was very romantic." Russia frowned. "Do you not want to marry me?"

"What? No, of course I do!" America exclaimed. "Did we, uh, did we set a date?"

Russia nodded. "A week from today."

"A week?! How are we supposed to plan a wedding in a week?" Italy cried.

"Do not worry, little Italy. I will take care of everything." The silver-haired nation smiled menacingly. He was very good when it came to persuasion. "Except for Alfred's clothing, of course."

"I'll call Mr. Russo."Lovino snagged his phone out of his pocket. "Russia and Alfredo! Think about it, Feli!" he yelled, rushing out of the room. "We're going to be the parents of both super nations!"

"Come on, Alfredo, let's go shopping!" Feliciano jumped up from his seat and dragged his son away.

"Hey, Ivan?" Canada asked, hoping he could call the other man by his human name now. They were to be brothers, after all.

Russia blinked. He had forgotten the other North American brother was there. "Yes, Matthew?"

He considered for a moment before going for it. "Al didn't actually propose to you, did he?"

Russia smiled. "Nyet."

"Then why not just tell him you were already married?"

"Everyone wants a wedding, da?"

Canada grinned. "You bastard."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hear ye hear ye! This November I will be embarking on a serious quest to win NaNoWriMo. This means I will be absent for November, so don't expect any updates on any of my stories (not that you were anyway). I'm writing a funny paranormal story. If you're interested in following my progress, I'll be posting on my weebly, twitter, and facebook pages (Plots Gone Bad). Feel free to check them out!
> 
> And speaking of self promotion, don't forget to check out my fanfiction fanpage on facebook! Find me as Lunar Mischief.
> 
> Many thanks as always go out to my wonderful beta MoonClaimed, who is also prepping for NaNo. Good luck to everyone participating this year!


	13. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, a slightly smaller wait than usual! Part of this delay was because I suck at writing, and part was because I have been working on other things! I've made progress on the next chapter of Paternity Tests and DWMAA, as well as a new Avengers/HTTYD story. The first chapter of that should be up soon, so keep an eye out!
> 
> Thanks always to the wonderful fantastical MoonClaimed for all her hard effort and rush edits. You're the best!

_You are cordially invited to attend the wedding of Alfred F. Jones and Ivan Braginski._

"Tell me this is a joke," France said, frowning at the elegant script on the page.

"Non, Papa, c'est vrai. They're getting married."

"Surely their bosses won't allow this," England said, taking a sip of his tea. "They hate each other."

"Though marriage would bridge the gap…" France considered.

"It's not political," Canada interjected. "They love each other. I think."

"Love is one thing, but marriage? What will become of their people if they divorce?" France paused. "Though I have to admit, it is romantic – it's like the tale of Romeo and Juliet! Two lovers whose families don't want them near each other…"

"I just can't believe Alfred agreed…" England said, ignoring his boyfriend's passionate speech. He narrowed his eyes. "Is Ivan forcing him to do this?"

"No. Well, maybe." Canada frowned. "Al had a concussion, so he's a little fuzzy on the details, but when Ivan told him they were to be wed in a week he didn't object, so…"

"Arthur," France said, grasping one of England's hands in both of his, "we should follow in their footsteps. You and I, we must be wed as well!"

England blushed. "W-w-what?!"

"I can just see it now. What a magnificent ceremony it will be. Doves, candlelight, a string quartet! And then, at the end of the night, we shall end with the most romantic love making we've ever had. It will be deep,  _passionate-_ "

"That's a lot more than I needed to know."

France blinked. "Oh, Matthieu, I forgot you were here."

"What else is new?" the invisible nation muttered, rolling his eyes. "I'm going to go work on my best man speech," he announced, standing up.

England, spotting his chance for escape, took it. "Oh, Alfred asked you?"

Canada frowned. "No, but who else would he choose? I'm his twin," he said, shrugging, as if it were obvious.

"Yes, but he's very good friends with Japan. And he has gotten rather close to the Italies for some reason. Oh, and then there's-"

" _I said,_ " Canada interrupted, glaring, "I'm his twin."

Having never heard Canada raise his voice, England couldn't help but hesitate before slowly responding, "Right. Well. Good luck on your speech, then."

"Thanks! Au revioir Papa; Arthur!" He smiled angelically before jogging out the door.

"Kid has problems," England said.

"Enough on that," France brushed him off. "Now, about our wedding…"

"I think you'd have to propose first, frog."

"Just you wait, mon cher," France grinned slyly. "Just you wait."

* * *

 

Meanwhile, the Italy brothers were going nuts trying to plan an extravagant wedding worthy of their America in just a week.

"Feli, you took care of the flower arrangements?" Romano asked, checking off their list.

"Si! Music?"

"Taken care of. What about venue?"

"I got the place we wanted at half the price," Italy said proudly. "I mentioned the Camorra people just like you asked and they gave me a deal, just like you said they would!"

Romano nodded in approval. "Very good. Okay, that just leaves – oh merda!" he exclaimed, a realization dawning on him.

"What is it, fratello? What's wrong?"

"We forgot about dresses!" Romano screeched, panicking. "Who's wearing the dress? Or are they both wearing a dress?"

Italy frowned, considering it. "I think they're both wearing tuxedos. But maybe we should go dress shopping just in case?" he suggested as an afterthought.

"Good idea," his twin said, instantly calming at the mention of shopping. "I'll call Mr. Russo."

Italy smiled. "I can't wait to try on more pretty dresses! Ludwig loved the pictures I sent him last time!"

"Oh my god, Feli!"

* * *

 

Back in Europe, there was an emergency secret summit meeting.

Germany cleared his throat over the loud nonsense that always ensued at these meetings. "Will everyone please sit down and SHUT UP!" he yelled. There was a moment of silence at this, and Germany jumped on it. "Thank you. Now then, we are here to discuss a very important issue. Russia and America are getting married."

There was a silence at this, then a barrage of protests, some hollers of support, and a certain female nation nearly fell out of her chair.

"America and Russia are getting married and they didn't ask me to plan their wedding?" Hungry demanded angrily. "Oh, I am going to be having words with them. Strong words. Don't they know it's my dream to plan a yaoi wedding?"

"Calm down everyone, please," Germany called over the crowd. "SILENCE!" he screamed when it didn't work. "As I was saying," he continued once the room had quieted, "Russia and America are getting married. It has been brought to my attention, however, that America might be getting tricked into marrying Russia. Someone needs to speak to him and determine if this is true and, if it is, tell him. America has a right to know."

"I do not think we should interfere with true love," Japan spoke up.

"It might not be true love. America has amnesia. He may not have proposed at all," Germany countered.

"Um, excuse me?" Lithuania called out timidly. "Russia and America were dating for a while before this."

"It's true!" Latvia piped up. "They seemed really happy together."

"We should not interfere," Estonia said simply.

Germany frowned. "…Are you actually sticking up for Russia? I thought he tortured you every day."

"Everyone deserves happiness!" Latvia said, hoping no one would question their motives further.

"I suppose, but I still believe we should tell America the truth and allow him to decide-"

"They should not get married," China interjected. "That's too much power for one couple to have."

"That is a good point," Egypt agreed.

"Yeah, and if they get married, how will Russia creep on America anymore?" Turkey whined. "That's my daily source of entertainment!"

"And who's paying for this?" Switzerland pointed out, choosing not to comment on Turkey's thoughts on the matter.

"I'm never getting my money back," China sighed.

"All of your points are stupid," Prussia said, shouting over everyone. "Countries have gotten together and broken up later. All that matters is if they are in love. So, Mattie, they in love?" Prussia asked his boyfriend.

Canada nodded. "I think so. Al's always really happy when Russia's around and doesn't shut up about him when he's not."

"Then there's no problem. So I say someone tells him, and if he loves him, it's okay."

Germany frowned. "But who will be the one to tell him?" he pondered.

"Not us!" the Baltics cried.

"There's, like, no way I'm calling him!" Poland chirped up. "What if Russia, like, takes it out on me?"

"It is only natural that someone as awesome as I-"

Canada placed a hand on Prussia's shoulder to hush him. "I think that falls under the best man's duties," Canada said, smiling at the albino.

Japan nodded. "I shall go call America now."

Canada's head snapped towards the Asian nation. "Who said you're going to be his best man?" he growled.

"America and I are best friends," the man answered simply.

"But I'm his twin," Canada countered, eyes narrowing.

"Yes, but I do not believe that is the deciding factor."

" _I said, I'm his twin_ ," Canada snarled.

Japan eyed the young nation, and, upon noticing his twitching eye, decided to let him have this one… for now. "Yes, I suppose you should be the one to tell him," Japan nodded.

"Damn straight I am!" Canada huffed in agreement. "I'll go visit him now." Canada turned and left the room without waiting for a response but stopped just outside when he heard a small, delicate voice call his name.

"Canada? I would like to come with you."

Canada turned and blinked. "Belarus? You  _want_  to come talk to Al? I thought you'd be mad that he's marrying your brother."

"Do not worry, Canada," Belarus said, brushing past him. "They will not be getting married."

"Huh? Why not?" the North American nation asked, tilting his head.

"Russia is  _mine_ ," she said simply, growling at the end.

"Maple… I have a bad feeling about this," Canada said, shaking his head but following the woman nonetheless. Not like he had much of a choice – letting Belarus go alone could end in bloodshed and Canada did not feel like filling out that paperwork.

* * *

 

"Lovi! What do you think of this one?" Italy cried, bounding out of his fitting room in a poofy frilly dress.

"Too much fluff. You look like a marshmallow," Romano said, barely glancing at it, instead staring at his own reflection. "Now this… this is a dress I wouldn't mind seeing Toni in." He contorted his body so his right hip was sticking out sexily.

"Lovi looks like a skank!" Italy sang, looking at Romano's slanky dress. "Ve? Lovi, your chest is barely covered," he said, noticing the front.

"I know," he answered smugly.

"But isn't that a dress meant for girls? How do they keep their boobs covered?"

"Have you seen how women dress these days? Absolutely no respect," Romano answered bitterly.

"It's a tragedy," Italy agreed, nodding solemnly. The brothers sat in silence for a moment, mourning the moment that fashion went wrong.

"Hey, Lovi?"

"Hm?" his brother asked, half paying attention.

"…Do you think Ludwig would look good in that dress?"

"OH MY GOD, FELI!"

* * *

 

America sighed and loosened the tie around his neck as he walked in the door from a long day at the office. He glanced at the calendar on his fridge and smiled. Just four more days until the big event. It was rough, in a way, still working when he was getting married in just a few days, but with the Italies planning it, he was pretty sure it wouldn't be anything less than extravagant. Or an international  disaster. It was a coin toss, really. At the very least, he had barely seen the brothers in the past three days, so he was looking forward to a nice quiet evening.

America had just settled on the couch with a beer in hand to watch some good old American football when the doorbell rang. Not even trying to figure out who it was (his house had recently become something of a tourist attraction to his fellow nations), he swung the door open without looking through the peep hole.

"Matt!" he grinned, spying his brother. "You're just in time. I just put on the-"

"Stay away from Ivan!" Belarus cut in, shouting irately over the loud nation (and what an accomplishment that was).

"Uh… hi, Belarus," America blinked, having not noticed her there before. "To what do I owe the, uh, pleasure?"

"Ivan is mine," she hissed, glaring daggers at the younger nation. "If you marry him, I will be forced to kill you."

America blinked, then smiled softly, understanding where she was coming from. "Belarus, I care for your brother very much. I would never hurt him. And even though we'll be married, that doesn't mean he still won't still have time for you."

"I don't think that's what she's getting at, Al…" Canada said softly.

"And besides," America continued, brushing off his brother, "I've always wanted a little sister."

Belarus' aura of death grew with every word he said. "I will skin you with a fork," she whispered darkly before turning on her heel and departing.

"She's feisty. I like her," America smiled fondly.

"Al, we need to talk," Canada said, drawing his twin's attention back on him. "I'm really not sure how to tell you this, but you and Russia…"

"Are not engaged," America finished. "I know."

Canada stared blankly at him for a moment. "What? How?"

"I mean, I think I'd remember proposing to him." America frowned. "Or maybe not. I'm definitely forgetting something. But I'm like 99 percent sure it wasn't that."

"Then why go through with it? Why not take your time and do the whole dating thing and plan your wedding right?"

"Come on, Matt; you're usually far more devious than I," America smirked.

Canada's eyes widened in realization. "You don't mean…? Oh, that  _is_  devious!"

"Yup!" America nodded. "Forcing me to marry him… he'll never be able to make up for that one. I can get anything I want out of it."

Around the corner, Belarus' eyes widened. America was that evil? She felt her heart race. It made sense, when she thought about it. Surely her brother wouldn't settle for a pansy. She snuck a glance around the corner. With that glint in his eye, America was devilishly handsome. And so _commanding._ It was decided, then: she would have them both.

Unaware of their creeper, the brothers continued their talk.

"Anything?" Canada paled at the thought. America had a super nation at his disposal. Money, treaties… it was too much power for one nation to have, now that he really thought about it.

"Yeah! Think of it! I can demand hamburgers on every date! Oh, and he won't be able to cut me off after a hundred anymore. And I can make him to watch real football and he has to say it's better than the soccer."

Canada smacked his head. "I forgot you were such an idiot for a moment there, Al. I thought you meant political power and ruling the world."

"Oh, that's phase two," he answered bluntly.

"Wait, what?"

"Kidding, kidding!" America laughed.

"You scared me for a sec there," Canada laughed.

"…Or am I?" the superpower added in a whisper.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, nothing," America assured his brother. "Just world domination," he added under his breath.

"Huh?"

"I'm craving Asian! Let's go grab some Chinese!"

Canada rolled his eyes. "Do you ever think with anything but your stomach?"

Belarus remained hidden in a bush until the North American brothers has pulled out of the driveway. "He's even interested in world domination," she breathed. Determination lit up in her eyes. "I'd best go pick out a wedding dress – our ceremony is just a few days away."

* * *

 

"Lovi's so mean," Spain pouted. "He's sending me all these photos of him in wedding dresses but he won't tell me where he is."

France leaned over the couch to peer at his friend's phone. "He's at Evangeline's," he said, barely glancing at the screen. "I hate to admit it, but the brat has good taste."

"You can tell after one look?" Prussia asked, forgetting who he was talking to.

"Evangeline is an artist! I would recognize any of her dresses," the Frenchman answered, offended.

"Where is it?" Spain asked, eyes wide. "I need to go see my Lovi."

Germany cleared his throat from across the room. "I, uh, would also like to go," he said, blushing and not making any eye contact with the Bad Touch Trio.

"Hm? Why?" Spain tilted his head.

"Oh, I know," France smirked. "Little Feli is there too, isn't he? I bet he's been sending you all sorts naughty pictures." Germany's blush intensified tenfold as the elder nation waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Who would have thunk it?" Prussia sniffled, wiping a fake tear from his eye. "My little Luddy is all grown up."

"Forget I said anything," Germany said, attempting to flee the room.

"Oh no you don't," Prussia said, grabbing his brother's shoulder. "You're one of us now," he grinned.

Germany moaned. "Gott help me."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How does one write Belarusssssssssssssssssssss he he it looks like walrus oh god I need sleep


	14. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally getting this up! Hopefully it's worth the wait.
> 
> MoonClaimed, you are the most amazing person I have yet to meet, and likely ever will. Thank you so much for all that you do.

France gazed at England in the dim room, lit only by candles. He had taken his boyfriend to the fanciest place in town. Everything had gone perfectly. The food. The music. And most importantly, the mood. Yes, tonight's the night it was going to happen. Tonight England would at last be his.

"Was everything to your liking, mon amour?" the Frenchman purred, smiling softly, a hand on his chin.

England nodded. "Yes, it was quite good. You did well, Francis."

"I want only the best things in life for you, Arthur," France answered smoothly.

"Well you certainly didn't disappoint," England conceded.

"Arthur," France said, suddenly serious, and grasped his lover's hands in his own. "You have no idea with what passion I mean it. I want to do nothing more than to bring you happiness each day. For years, I've longed for this. You have made me the happiest nation in the world."

England blushed. "Yes, well, I-I'm very happy with you too." He stammered out his confession, face red as a beet.

"Arthur?" France asked quietly, leaning in. His heart was racing. This was it. He just had to force the words out. In barely above a whisper he said, "Je t'adore. Would you do me the honor-"

England leaned in close, trying to decipher the other blond's words over the noise in the restaurant. In the process, his elbow knocked into the candle on the table, sending it toppling over. France stopped speaking and watched with England as the candle seemed to fall in slow motion. It landed on its side, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then, in the blink of an eye, the tablecloth lit up in flames.

"Well, shit," England said plainly from across the newly lit bonfire.

France sighed, taking in the growing inferno. The moment had been perfect, too.

* * *

 

The wedding was three days away when the President of the United States looked out of the window of the Oval Office and noticed something peculiar. Frowning, he squinted across the city, eying a McDonald’s several blocks away. “What the…” he muttered. He grabbed his phone, opened the camera app, and pointed at the Mickey D’s. He zoomed it in as far as it would go. “Well, that’s odd,” he said, puzzled by the image displaying on his screen. He closed the app and called his fellow world leader.

“Mr. President,” Russia’s boss greeted. “To what do I owe the…. Pleasure?”

“Mr. President, I was wondering…” the American hesitated, wondering how crazy he was going to sound. “Have you noticed any...” he frowned, trying to find best way to phrase his inquiry. “Any sudden changes in your country recently?”

The Russian thought for a moment, turning to face the window behind him as well. “Should I have?” he asked suspiciously.

“Not necessarily, no. It’s just…” the President of the United States sighed, running a hand through his hair and hoping he didn’t sound too paranoid. “There are suddenly four McDonald’s now selling borscht within sight of the White House.”

The line was silent for a moment, and the President wondered if by some dumb stroke of luck the connection had broken before his confession. Then the silence was filled with cackling laughter.

“Mr. President,” the Russian smiled gleefully, “perhaps your citizens are finally developing a taste of a fine cuisine. I assure you, there have been no signs of Americanism over here, if that’s what you were concerned about.”

The other nation chuckled in relief. “Sorry, it’s just with the marriage, I can’t help but feel something’s bound to change.”

“What, you think the American symbol of freedom is just going to start flying around Russia?” The Russian President let out another laugh and spun his office chair around - and nearly dropped the phone when a bald eagle swooped past his window. He blinked before slowly stating, “We might have a problem.”

* * *

 

“Alfredo, let’s go! We have the cake tasting in fifteen minutes, then the tux fitting – or dress if you prefer – I noticed you still have them. And then after that is the rehearsal dinner, then we need to teach you how to dance because god knows you can’t dance – twerking is not dancing!” Romano quickly added as America opened his mouth.

“What about the nae nae?” America asked.

“ _Definitely_  not the nae nae.” The blond pouted. “Then after that we have the engagement photos, then there’s the engagement party, the shower, the bachelor party, then we repeat the rehearsal because you won’t pay attention the first time, and then you’ll have a whole fifteen minutes to yourself before you have to get ready for the wedding.” Romano looked up from his clipboard and eyed the taller nation. “You can function without sleep, right?”

"Romano, stop," America said firmly. "All of that stuff you just mentioned? I don't care. About any of it. I just want to marry Ivan."

Romano nodded. "Yes, and to get there, you need-"

"-to show up at the altar. That's it."

"But…. But the cake. And the dancing. And the high class dining." Romano didn't understand why the other nation wouldn't want any of that.

"Calm down. I trust you, 'mano. You got this." America shot a thumbs up to the Italy. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go make out with my fiancé in my bathroom mirror." America strode down the hall. "Oh, and I'm not wearing a dress," he called back, sticking his head out the bathroom door.

"What about Russia?"

America considered this for a moment. "Well,  _I_  certainly have no objections." He winked, adjusted his shirt, and strode into the bathroom with purpose.

Romano looked up with a frown, considering what his boy had just said. "I have to agree with him. Russia would look good in a dress."

* * *

 

"Ve? What do you mean Alfredo's not coming to the tux fitting?" Italy cried. "Doesn't he know what a big moment this is for his parents?"

"He was bound to enter a rebel stage eventually… all teenagers do. Besides," Romano placated, "it's Mr. Russo. Has he ever steered us wrong?"

"Lovi!" Italy gasped. "How could you ever suggest such a thing?"

"I'm not, damn it! That's exactly my point. The tuxes will be great."

"They'll be magnifico!" Italy agreed.

"On your way to Mr. Russo's, go pick up the dresses too."

"Oh, Alfredo said they want to wear both?" In the background, Italy started a car.

"Not in so many words, but I am sure we can persuade them. Mothers of the bride and all that." Romano paused. "Wait a minute."

"I like the way you think. I'll meet you at the rehearsal dinner." There was a shriek in the background and Italy giggled. "Whoops! Forgot to go into drive. Bye Lovi!"

* * *

 

"Mon cher," France purred, taking England's hand. They were sitting on the edge of a fountain next to the Eiffel Tower. It was evening, and the lights of the fountain glowed softly against their skin. "You have made me very happy these past few centuries. Even when we were at odds, I found myself mercilessly drawn to your presence. Oui, before I knew it, I was already in love with you."

"Francis," England breathed, blushing. "Whatever has gotten into you?"

"Mon amour, a day without you by my side is a day I would rather not spend. For if I should ever have to roam this Earth alone, I would surely perish from grief." England didn't dare breathe. "Arthur, stay with me now and forevermore. I-"

England jumped when his phone suddenly started screaming. He flailed, lost his balance on the wide ledge as only he could, and fell into the water behind him.

France stared at the waterlogged nation for a moment before laughing. England glared in response. "Come, mon amour," France said, helping his fellow blond out of the water. "Let's get you into some warm clothes." He paused. Did he just really suggest  _clothing_  the object of his affection? "On second thought, let's just get you out of those."

Inwardly, France sighed. Another attempt ruined by his magnificent spaz of a boyfriend. No matter; he would try again tomorrow.

* * *

 

In the end, Romano somehow managed to get America and Russia to attend their rehearsal dinner. It was only to be expected that the rehearsal did not go as expected.

The first problem was a disagreement over who was to be America's best man. America had not specifically asked anyone to be his best man, so a minor fight resulting in a few bruised ribs and a broken nose ensued, with Canada eventually being crowned the winner when America came over and calmly explained that Canada was his twin, so of course he was the best man. It went a little like this:

"I'll cut you bitch!" Canada screamed, swinging his trusty hockey stick at Japan, who in turn blocked the attack and countered, landing a solid kick to Canada's ribs.

"I am Alfred's closest friend!" Japan insisted before Canada tackled him to the ground and the pair began wrestling.

"I raised the lad!" England argued, about to step in when France grabbed his shoulder.

"Mon amour, do not make Alfred reject you again." England opened his mouth to protest, then, thinking about the last time he tried to claim the nation as his, thought better of it and huffed before dragging the Frenchman to the bar.

"What the hell is going on?" America shouted upon seeing the violent pair on the floor.

"Tell this hoser that I'm your best man, Al!" Canada yelled.

"Please inform your brother that, as your best friend, I am the more suitable choice for the position," Japan said, gritting his teeth.

America blinked. That's what this was about? "Dude, cut out out!" America yelled at Japan. "He's my twin. Of course he's my best man!"

Japan stopped fighting for a minute to process what he was just told, and in that instance, Canada decked him.

"Damn straight I am!" America pulled his brother off the elder nation.

America pulled his brother off the elder nation. "Sorry, man. You're totally one of my groomsmen, though.” Looking shifty, America leaned forward and hissed, “He really would cut you, dude. And me. And he never forgets.”

Japan bowed, conceding, and thanked America for the honor before going to catch up with Greece.

"Shit, Matt. I thought you knew," America said, running a hand through his hair.

"I did, but…" Canada hesitated. "Well, you never really asked, Al."

"I didn't?" he asked, surprised. "Could have sworn I did."

"Nope."

“Yeah, don’t you remember? We were in the bathroom at my place? I said, ‘Hey Matt, you’re my best man. That cool?’ You didn’t answer, so I took that as a yes.”

“You sure you weren’t talking to your reflection again?”

“…No?” America answered after a minute, unsure. “Well. In that case, Mr. Matthew Williams," America bowed, "will you do me the honor of being my best man?" he asked suavely.

"Oh my god, Al." Realization dawned on Canada. "We haven't even started the rehearsal and you're already drunk?"

"Jus' a little bit," he winked. "Don't tell Mom."

Canada stared at his twin, unsure. "I'll be sure not to, Al," he said finally.

"You're the best, man." America laughed. "Best, man. Best man."

"Why don't we go find you a seat?"

In addition to America getting spectacularly drunk, there was another nation giving him a run for his money across the room.

"Francissssss," England slurred. "We should go get tattoos. Or a pony." He gasped in a stroke of genius. "Let's get tattoos of ponies!"

France sighed, unable to believe his luck. He had tried for the third time in three days to propose to England. It had been so perfect, too. Where better to get engaged than at the celebration of another's union? The atmosphere was already there, the music, the people to celebrate with… it was perfect. And yet, somehow, England had managed to ruin his attempt yet again. It seemed their relationship was doomed to remain as it was forever.

The officiant, somewhere between the bar fight and a streaking France (who at the point decided he had nothing to lose), had turned up, muttered something along the lines of "Oh hell no," and turned right back out and left.

Belarus showed up in a little red number and promptly sat on America's lap. America, either too drunk to realize she was all but drooling over him or naive enough to think that this was just typical little sister behavior, had let her, and even went so far as to tell Russia to "calm yo shizz." Russia was not amused, but too terrified of his little sister to object, instead choosing to pout in the corner.

There was also a small fire that Prussia swore he didn't start that might have wrecked the catering hall.

Needless to say, the Italies were in full blown panic mode by the end of the night and had to be taken back to the hotel by their significant others.

* * *

 

France, as it turned out, out drank England by the end of the night and was rudely awakened late the next morning with the mother of hangovers. He groaned, deciding to snuggle into England rather than get up. He furrowed his eyebrows and blearily opened his eyes when the man in question was nowhere to be found.

"Arthur?" he mumbled, thinking that somehow the man would just magically appear. He groaned again when he did not, realizing he was going to have to get out of bed. He took a deep breath, propped himself up, blinked slowly, then flopped back down. What was another hour?

"Francis?" England called softly as he watched the other man fall back onto the mattress.

"Mmm?"

"I brought some aspirin."

"Je t'adore," France mumbled, rolling over to take the pill and the glass of water that had been brought with it.

"How are you feeling?" England kept his voice quiet.

France concentrated for a moment, making sure he answered in English. "Like I was hit with a brick."

"I can't say I'm surprised. Honestly, what were you thinking, getting drunk like that?" England chastised.

"I was thinking you, mon cher, were spectacularly drunk, so I might as well be too," he answered groggily.

"The couple that gets drunk together stays together, hmm?"

"If that's what it takes, my sobriety is a sacrifice I am willing to make."

England smiled before turning red. "Um, Francis, listen…"

"What is it, Arthur?" Francis asked, detecting the serious change in mood.

"I... "Arthur paused, thinking for a moment. “I'm not good at big romantic gestures like you are. Or speeches. Or anything like that, really."

France smiled. "I know. What-"

"Let me finish - wait, what do you mean you know? Never mind." England was rambling now. "You're an annoying perverted pain in my ass, and yet I love you for some reason I cannot begin to fathom."

"Arthur," France breathed. England so rarely expressed such a level of affection that he couldn't help but be moved.

"You said yesterday that you didn't want to spend a day without me by your side. I feel the same way." He took a deep breath. "What I'm trying to say, is," England dropped down to one knee and pulled a small ring box out of his pocket, opening it in front of the man on the bed. "Francis Bonnefoy, will you do me the honor of being my husband?"

France didn't move for a moment, and England was beginning to get worried. Just when he was about to walk away, dejected, the Frenchman laughed, and then laughed again, and soon enough he was hunched over in a fit of laughter. "Oh mon dieu," he chuckled. "You have got to be kidding me."

England stared blankly at the other man for a moment, before standing up indignantly, red-faced and eyes tearing. "A simple no would have sufficed!" he shouted, turning to leave.

France grabbed his arm, stopping him. "Oh, Arthur, I didn't mean it like that." England looked at him doubtfully. "Arthur, I have been trying to propose to you for days," he said, smirking.

Now it was England's turn to be shocked. "What? When?"

"The fancy restaurant we went to a few days ago, the fountain, and the dinner last night."

"You were going to propose to me when you were drunk?" England asked, cocking a large eyebrow.

"No, it was before that. I had place the ring in your champagne glass." France paused. "I'm sure you'll pass it."

England chose to ignore that part. "So… is that a yes? Are we engaged?"

"Mon amour, I thought you'd never ask." France cupped England's face and leaned in, the pair sharing a passionate kiss. "I think this calls for a celebration," he said seductively.

"Way ahead of you," England said winking, standing up. "I'll be right back. Don't move."

France smiled, his mind cooking up all the possibilities that the other man could be going to surprise him with. A sexy number? Perhaps a new toy?

When England finally came back in, he was carrying something France had most definitely not considered.

"I baked us some celebratory scones!" England announced, beaming.

France stared at the blackened pastries in horror. Normally he could find a way out, but this time, he was going to have to eat them.  _Merde_. Hesitantly, he took one. England had already spread clotted crème and jam across it "just how he liked it" (aka the only way he could stomach them). Closing his eyes and saying a prayer, he took a bite.

_If this isn't love, I don't know what is._

* * *

 

America groaned when his phone woke him up the next morning at 11. "'lo?" he asked without checking to see who was calling.

"Good morning Alfredo!" Italy's voice was chipper as ever. "How's your hangover?"

"Fantastic," he deadpanned.

"Glad to hear it! We'll be at your place in fifteen to head over to the engagement photoshoot, kay?"

America moaned, rolling over and running a hand over his face. "Shit. Yeah. Okay. Let me just…" America squinted at his surroundings. He put on Texas and squinted again. "Hey, Feli? I'll just, uh, meet you there." He hung up without waiting for a response. "Where…?" He was suddenly very aware he was naked, thought he couldn't for the life of him remember why. Had he and Ivan gotten a hotel room last night?

"Good morning Alfred." America's head whipped around to the door.

"Belarus?"

 


	15. Chapter 13

Alfred suddenly realized just how naked he was and pulled the blankets up higher. Why was he with Belarus? Did they..? No, there was no way. But why else wouldn’t he be wearing any clothes? He really wished he could remember what happened last night.

“Belarus? What’s going on?” At least she had a dress on. It didn’t cover much, but it covered something.

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember?” She slowly approached the bed, sitting down on the edge next to America, who clenched the blanket a little tighter.

The blond swallowed, hard. “Belarus… what did we do last night?”

She leaned in and placed a hand on his chest before speaking, voice full of lust. “Why Alfred, we made sweet, sweet love last night. The best you’ve ever had, you said.”

“WHAT?!” Oh man, Ivan was going to kill him. “You can’t be serious!”

Belarus leaned in, her lips an inch away from his. “No,” she pouted, pulling away. “You got drunk last night and made it your mission to make sure your ‘baby sister’ got home safe.”

America blinked. That sounded like him. “But then why am I naked?”

Belarus shrugged. “You were very tired and practically passed out as soon as we walked through the doors. I ask you to stay the night.”

America’s eyes widened. “You told me my suit would get wrinkled if I slept in it.”

She nodded. “You took it off. And then took everything else off. And went to sleep.” Not the night she had planned for the two of them.

“Oh god. Belarus, I am so, _so_ sorry.”

“Alfred, I’ve seen it all.” She gave him a knowing look. “I think that puts us on first name basis, da?”

America blushed and let out an embarrassed chuckle. “Y-yeah, you’re probably right. Besides, you’re going to be my sister, right, Natalia?”

Belarus frowned. “I guess.”

“Hey, I know you care about Ivan, but like I said, he’ll still have plenty of time for you.” Belarus didn’t look any happier. “But that’s not it, is it?” America might not know what Belarus really wanted, but even he could tell something was bothering her, and for once it wasn’t Russia on her mind.

She looked away from him. “Alfred… I don’t want to be your little sister.”

“Oh.” America was silent for a moment. “Listen, if you don’t like me, that’s fine. We can just keep things the way they are. That’s cool.”

She shook her head. “You misunderstand me.” She looked at him suddenly, gaze intense. “I want to be your wife.”

…

…

“Huh?” America really hadn’t expected _that_. “Natalia, I’m flattered, but I’m marrying Ivan tomorrow.”

She nodded. “Yes. I know.”

“Then you understand why I can’t marry you?” His tone was sincere; he felt bad turning her down.

“No. You still do not understand.”

He really didn’t. “I’m marrying Ivan. What else is there to understand?”

She shook her head. “No,” she answered, taking his hand. “You are marrying Ivan and me.”

“Uhhh….” America blanked. “Does Ivan know about this? He, uh, didn’t mention that part to me.”

“Ivan was to be mine. But you seem fit for the position of my beloved husband as well. Therefore, you will both be mine,” she stated simply.

“Listen, Natalia. I’m flattered. Really, I am. But I…” Shit, how was he supposed to do this? “I love Ivan. I just don’t feel that way about you. Hell, I barely even know you. So, I’m sorry, but I can’t marry you.”

Belarus narrowed her eyes. “I see.”

“Yeah, I’m really sorry. But we can still-”

“We will go on a date at once. I will make you love me.”

“What?” Alfred gaped, then shook his head wildly. “No, Natalia, that’s not what I-”

“Put your clothes back on.” She paused. “Or don’t, if that’s what it takes.”

“NO! No, clothes are definitely a good idea…” But she was staring at him expectantly. “Um, Nat? I can’t really change with you watching me,” he blushed.

“As I’ve already informed you, I’ve seen it all.” Her response was devoid of emotion.

“That’s, uh. Yeah. No. I can’t do it with you watching. It’s just… wrong.”

Belarus blinked. “Yes, I suppose we cannot jump right to that part. Very well. I will wait outside.” She exited the room before America could protest more.

“Geez, what have I gotten myself into?” he asked the empty room before hunting for his discarded suit.

America had just finished changing when his phone rang. _Ivan. Thank god. He’ll talk some sense into his sister_. _Sure, he always runs from her, but he’s not_ actually _afraid of her, right?_

“Hey Ivan, I’m glad you called-”

“Alfred, we’re still getting married, da?” His voice sounded oddly concerned.

“What? Of course we are, dude! Why would you think we weren’t?”

“You were spending a lot of time with my sister last night, and now you do not show for our engagement photos. I thought maybe the two of you…”

“Oh shit, the photos! Ivan, I am so, _so_ sorry! I crashed at Belarus’ last night and she-”

“You spent the night with Natalia?” Was that an edge of unease in Russia’s voice?

“Yeah, I didn’t mean to, like it wasn’t planned or anything, but the bed was right there, so…”

“Alfred, are you almost ready to go on our date?” Belarus called through the door.

“I think maybe we should not be getting married,” Ivan interrupted quietly.

“What? Why?” America panicked, not believing what he was hearing.

“I want to marry you because I love you, da? You are not feeling the same. We should not be getting married.”

“What? Ivan, bro, you know I love you,” he protested.

“And yet you go on date with Natalia.”

“No, I-”

“Goodbye, Alfred.”

“Ivan, wait!” America cried, but the Russian had already hung up the phone. “Shit, this can’t be happening…”

“Alfred, is everything okay?” Belarus asked, opening the door.

“You!” he shouted, spinning and pointing at her. “You need to call your brother right now and explain that we are not dating and we will never be dating!” the blond demanded.

“But that would be lie. We go on date now, yes?”

“No! No, we will not go on date now. We will not go on date ever. I love Ivan, Natalia, not you,” America responded firmly.

Belarus glared daggers at him. “What’s the matter? Do I not please you? Why do you refuse?”

“Because I just want to marry Ivan! And now because of this whole mess, he’s called off the wedding. So no, you do not please me.”

“I see,” she said, frowning. “It is because big brother called off the wedding.” She nodded to herself. “Very well. I will fix.” She paused. “After date.”

“Nuh-uh. Haven’t you been listening? There will be no date. You will fix now.”

“Nyet. You will date first, then realize Natalia is good choice too, and marry both of us. Come.” She took his hand and began to walk towards the door. She didn’t make it two steps before she was unable to move further; America was holding his ground.

“No,” he repeated forcefully, which if the sudden possessive glint in her eye was anything to go by, wasn’t helping his cause. Apparently Belarus liked assertive men. He shook the thought off and said, “I’m not going anywhere until you call him.”

Belarus blushed at the power the young nation was exerting. Everything he did just made her want him more. “Fine. I call first,” she relented, pulling out her phone. They were getting nowhere at this point. She’d try her luck again when he wasn’t in such an aggressive mood.

She quickly dialed, frowning when it rolled to voicemail. Why did he never answer her calls? “Brother? It’s Natalia. I did not sleep with Alfred, so you will still become one with us.”

“No, just me,” America insisted.

“Us,” Belarus repeated before hanging up. “We date now, yes?”

“No, I go to my photoshoot in the park. You stay here.”

Belarus narrowed her eyes. “Nyet, I come too.” She walked to the door.

“You know what? I don’t even care anymore. Come if you want, but it’ll just be Ivan and me in the pictures.” America left the room and was saved from Belarus’ rebuttal with another phone call. He grimaced before answering. “Hey Romano…. How’s it going?”

“How’s it going? How’s it going? Che cazzo you sleep with that commie bastard’s sister and you ask how it’s going? It’s going fucking swell!” America held the phone away from his ear as he made his way to the parking lot. “Feli and I spent _hours_ planning the perfect wedding and then replanning it after everything fell apart last night just for you to blow it! Feli’s inconsolable – even the damn potato fucker can’t calm him. I’ve never been so disappointed in you, Alfredo.” That probably shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did.

“Listen, it was just a big misunderstanding, okay?” he said, getting into his car – alone, thank god – and buckling himself in. “Belarus already called Russia to explain. I’m on my way to the shoot now. I’ll be there in five. The wedding is still on.” At least, he hoped it was.

“You’d better be telling the truth,” Romano snapped before disconnecting.

* * *

 

“Hey, Mattie!” Prussia called, jogging over to the bench his boyfriend was sitting on just outside the hotel, overlooking a lake. “Sorry I’m late! Russia’s apparently having second thoughts and Italy’s having a meltdown so Bruder asked me to take care of a few things for him.”

“It’s fine, I just – wait, what?” It hadn’t even been five seconds and already the conversation he had planned had been derailed. “Does Al know? He can’t be okay with this.”

“Ja, Romano was just screaming at him on the phone. The whole park knows.”

“I wonder what happened.” Canada mused, furrowing his brow his brow. “Ivan seemed pretty into him.”

Prussia frowned, tiling his head. “Yeah, now that you mention it, it really only makes sense if Mini-me did something stupid like hit on someone else.”

“Oh no,” Canada paled. “Maple, Al, tell me you didn’t…”

Prussia blinked, suddenly focused. “What do you know?”

“Alfie got really drunk last night. Like, _really_ drunk. And Belarus has her eye on him. And they kind of, um, left together?”

Prussia gaped at the blond for a minute. “Wait, you’re not saying… Belarus and Mini-me?!”

“No!” Canada shook his head fervently. “No, Al would never do that to Ivan. The idiot probably thought he was doing the right thing, making sure she got home alright or something. He just didn’t realize how it looked, her clinging to him like she was.”

“Damn…” Prussia ran a hand through his hair. “So what do we do?”

“Us? Nothing,” Canada answered. “No way I’m getting in the middle of that. I’m sure Al will run crying to Ivan and it’ll all be sorted out.” He cleared his throat. “Besides, I wanted to talk to you about something else.” A light blush tinted his cheeks.

“Hm? What’s got you so nervous all of a sudden, birdie?”

Canada sighed. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this. It was supposed to be nice and romantic and then Al had to mess up again, and-”

“Mattie,” Prussia said, placing his hand lightly on top of Canada’s to focus him.

“You still live with Germany.”

Prussia blinked.  Well that was a jump. “Uh, yeah? I mean, where else would I go? It’s not like I have a government to provide me house anymore.”

“Right. You don’t really have a home.” That was not how he meant to say that. You’d think France would have taught him better.

The albino frowned. “Geez, Mattie, way to rub it in.”

“I love you, Gil. And I don’t want you to be so far away all the time. I want to be your home.” He reached into his pocket, pulled a small item out, and placed it gently in his boyfriend’s hand. “So, say you’ll move in with me?”

Prussia looked at Canada with wide eyes then at the key in his hand before looking back up. “Mattie…” he breathed.

“You don’t have to decide now. It’s a big step, I know, so just think about what you wa-mm!”

Prussia interrupted the blond’s nervous speech with a passionate kiss, pulling away after a moment to answer him huskily. “I know _exactly_ what I want.”

* * *

 

It was around ten in the morning when every nation got a group text from France.

France: Arthur and I are engaged!

Hungary: You’d better not be pulling my leg again. You remember what happened last time J

England: He’s telling the truth. Beyond my better judgement I have decided to marry the fool.

Germany: Thank gott. Maybe now we can actually be productive at meetings.

America: It’s about fucking time.

Japan: Seriously, I was beginning to think it would never happen.

Canada: Right? Al and I have been trying so hard to get them together for the past century.

America: This means the two of you will stop eye-fucking every time you come over, right?

England: We do not “eye fuck!”

America: Yeah you do

Canada: Yeah you do

France: Yes we do

Spain: Congrats mi amigo!

Hungary: All of my fantasies are becoming a reality <3

Switzerland: Who won the bet?

England: What bet?

Austria: Hold on. Let me check the tables.

England: WHAT BET?

Romano: For when you and that fucker would finally get hitched.

England: What? That’s entirely improper! How could you bet on something as private as our love life?

Prussia: Easily.

Austria: The winner is France.

Austria: …That seems a little suspect.

France: Oui, mais it was Arthur who proposed, not me. So it’s legal.

England: FRANCIS? YOU BET ON OUR ENGAGEMENT?

France: It was only a matter of time mon cher.

The text ended with an embarrassingly large number of concurrences.

* * *

 

“Ivan?” It was ten thirty by the time America came barreling into the nearby park where the photoshoot was supposed to take place. He stopped to catch his breath when he made it to Romano. “’mano, where’s Ivan?”

“Fuck if I know! You were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago!” Romano shouted.

“I know; I’m sorry. There was traffic. I got here as fast as I could,” America apologized.

“Yeah right. I could have made it in five,” the Italian scoffed.

“Yeah, well, I value my life. But seriously, where is he?” America glanced around the park quick but couldn’t spot his fiancé.

“I already told you, I don’t know! He came over and told us the wedding was off and then just fucking left.” Fled might have been more accurate. Turns out Romano was very protective of America and started cursing at him; he never thought he’d have the courage for something like that, but it was for his little West Italy.

“He left the park?” America was crestfallen.

Romano frowned, thinking. He had been too focused threatening the mafia on his ass and hadn’t really payed attention to where he went. “No, I think he went further in. You’d better fucking fix this; I had to send Feli back to the hotel with fucking Germany he was so upset.”

“Don’t worry, Romano. The hero always saves the day.” He shot him a false smile before running further into the park, the wooded section. He wasn’t feeling particularly heroic. Hell, he wasn’t feeling much of anything besides panic at this point. Losing Russia was not something he wanted to contemplate.

He was too busy looking for his lover to notice anyone else in the park, and let out a yelp as someone grabbed his arm and pushed him up against a tree.

“Hallo, Alfred.”

“Wha- Belarus? Oh not this again…” he moaned. “Can we please do this later? I really need to find Ivan.”

“No, we go on promised date now. That was agreement.”

“No, agreement was that you call Ivan and tell him it’s all a big understanding and then leave us alone,” America insisted, pressing back into the tree to put as much distance between them as he could.

“After you go on date and fall in love with me,” she countered.

“Nat, man, you gotta let this go. You’re a, uh, nice girl and all, but I’m marrying Ivan like literally tomorrow. I hope.” He shook his head. “But really. Stop.”

Belarus frowned. “You think I look like man?” She leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Maybe I show you I am not man.”

America turned bright red and pushed her back a step. “Stop now. Please, just stop. You’re really starting to freak me out a little, and not in a good way, either.” His eyes darted around the trees, but no one seemed to be around.

“No. We date. And you become one with me.” She took his wrist in a firm grip and started to walk away. “Come.”

“Nat, listen to me. I don’t want to become one with you. I just want to marry Ivan so will you please just let go!”

She turned to face him and considered. “Fine. No date.” She leaned in so her lips were inches away from his and began to unbutton his jacket. “Just become one with me then.”

“Whoa! Hey! That is not what I said!”

A hand grabbed Belarus’ wrist and pulled her away from America.

“Excuse me, little sister, but what do you think you are doing to Alfred?” Ivan smiled at her even though every instinct in his body was telling him to get away from her as fast as possible.

America let out a sigh of relief. “Ivan! Man, am I glad to see you.”

“Big Brother! It’s good you are here. Now both of you can become one with me.”

“Yeah, still not really feeling that,” America said, clutching his jacket closed.

“Natalia, Alfred and I will be going now please.”

Belarus stamped her foot. “Nyet! Not until you become one with me!”

Russia looked from her to America a few times, deciding what to do. Then a hard look entered his eyes, and America felt a flash of pride run through his chest. He couldn’t believe it. Was Russia finally going to stand up to the sister he always ran from (and with good reason, apparently)?

With one final look at his sister, Ivan made his move. He took a quick step around her, threw America over his shoulders, and took a page from the Italies’ book: fleeing as fast as he could.

Belarus shouted gave chase for a few minutes before letting them get away; she’d see them at the altar tomorrow.

After a few more minutes of running just to be safe, Russia set America down on a bench in a gazebo and caught his breath.

“Ivan?” America prompted after a moment.

“Hm?”

“Your sister needs help.”

Russia laughed. “Now you see why I always run.”

“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for the save back there.”

“I have been where you were many times. Not fun.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “You did not sleep with Natalia, did you?” It wasn’t a question.

“Hell no,” America denied. “Bitch be crazy.”

“But you stayed the night with her.”

“Yeah, but not like that. I was making sure she got home safe. But I was really tired and there was a bed right there, so…” He shrugged. “In hindsight it was dumb, but I was super drunk so it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Russia was silent for a moment. “So you do not want to date other people?”

“What? Dude, no! I love you. I don’t want to date anyone else. I don’t want to marry anyone else. That’s why I was looking for you. I want to marry you, Ivan Braginski. No one else. Why else would I have proposed?”

Russia bit his lip. “Alfred…”

“So yeah. Say you’ll still marry me.”

Russia shook his head. “Nyet. I cannot.”

America’s heart plummeted. “Wh-what? Why? Do you not… like me anymore?”

“Nyet, I do. I love you very much and that is why I cannot.”

America frowned. Maybe his English was rusty? “I don’t follow. You know love and marriage go together, right?”

Russia’s smile turned sad. “I cannot because you never proposed.”

“Huh?” America startled. Well, there went his McDonalds for the rest of his life. “What are you talking about? You said…”

“Da. I lied.  Oops.”

 “So… you don’t want to get married?”

“Nyet, I do. But only if you want to. I do not want you to marry me under false assumption,” Russia explained.

The blond was thoroughly lost now. “Then why lie about it at all?”

Russia blushed. “Was selfish. I wanted to marry you, but did not think you would propose soon.”

“Huh? Why would you think that?”

“When I said I wanted to see you more you built tunnel connecting houses instead of giving key or asking me to move in,” Russia said.

“Believe me, I’d love for you to move in, but we both have lots of work to do. I couldn’t ask you to give up on that for me. So I dug a tunnel so you could come visit whenever you wanted. Who needs a key when you’re already in the place, right? Besides, I, uh, knew I didn’t propose to you,” he admitted bashfully. “I just wanted to marry you, too.

“But,” he said, standing up and stretching, “if we’re going to do this, I guess we should do it right. So, Ivan Braginski,” he started dropping to one knee, “will you do me the honor for marrying me tomorrow?”

Russia smiled brightly. “I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

 

“Good news, Romano!” America cheered as he walked over hand-in-hand with Russia. “We’re all good to get married tomorrow. It’s not too late for those pics, right?”

“Thank fucking god. Now maybe Feli will stop crying.” Romano waved over the photographer. “He’s all yours.”

“Awesome, so there’s this great gazeebos in a ways…” America started to lead the man into the park.

Romano grabbed the photographer’s arm and spoke quietly so only he could hear. “Make sure you charge the extra time to Alfred Jones. Mother of the bride or not I’m not paying because this idiota fucked up.”

**Author's Note:**

> The lovely MoonClaimed betas this story for me in her little spare time. She's written some pretty good stuff herself - go check her out!


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